


Shirtsleeves

by twobirds



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2747675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirds/pseuds/twobirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An artist who depicts Batman in a series of intimate paintings intrigues both Bruce Wayne and Batman. Bruce struggles with his desire to keep distance and play billionaire playboy to protect the woman and his growing feelings for her while she unknowingly engages with the man who saved her life in an alley eight years prior. How long can he keep up the charade? And how long until she finds out who was under the mask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            While charity events and galas were frequent events for Bruce Wayne, he didn’t often go to art galleries. He especially didn’t go to galleries for up and coming artists, as the media called them. If Wayne Industries wasn’t involved, he wasn’t likely to be there. However cruel it sounded, Bruce was a busy man. He needed more hours than the day provided. Bothering himself with events that didn’t guarantee him investors, events that weren’t an attempt to calm the city- they were a waste of time. Alfred reminded him of this the entire drive to the art district of Gotham City where he dropped him off in front of the brick building wielding a rusty looking sign reading ‘THE 46’. The building bustled with activity, inside and out. Bruce had hoped not to draw too much attention to himself, but with a camera flash as soon as he stepped out of his limo, all hopes of confidentiality were lost.

            A flashy smile automatically graced his face. He was so used to putting up a façade at events that sometimes he believed what he was selling. It felt good to occasionally get wrapped up in the social games. No, he wasn’t Batman. He didn’t have the weight of a city on his shoulders. He didn’t have secrets and enemies and a deadly little black book. He was Bruce Wayne, philanthropist billionaire playboy. His black book held names and numbers, not deaths and leads. The only secrets he held were the touches of the women he took home. He was a normal 34 year old in the city of dreams.

            If only. No matter how hard he tried or wanted to forget, he was Batman. He could only push out the voices for so long. They flooded his mind, constantly whispering. Sometimes they were so intense he had to bury himself in a bottle of whiskey. Other times the madness fueled his fight against Gotham’s worst. Whatever the circumstance, Bruce had come to terms with most of his demons. He was content with the long nights, the voices and the cameras. This particular evening, he had found a subtle balance between Bruce Wayne and Batman- something that didn’t occur very often. It left him feeling euphoric.

            He shook hands and posed for pictures as he walked into the building. Small talk was second nature to him. He barely remembered what he was saying; the conversation flew so natural. _You spew bullshit, Bruce_ , he would tell himself later that evening. But in the moment he enjoyed every second. He had finally managed to work his way into the building. Inside, the atmosphere was light… almost romantic. The stark walls were adorned with collections of paintings, spotlights fixated on showcasing the masterpieces. Statues were sporadically placed, outlined with lush red rope. Faint music could be heard under the chatter of the crowd. A young man wearing black dress pants, a white button down shirt, and a bright blue and orange polka dotted tie approached him with a tray of drinks. Bruce declined. He felt too good to drink the demons in. Besides, he was on a mission. He wasn’t one to drink on the job.

            Yes, Bruce Wayne was appearing as himself on this mission. Word had quickly spread about this particular gallery at THE 46 due to a batty collection that was debuting. Bruce was both interested in seeing the art modeled after his alter ego, as well as seeing if whoever the artist was had any insight into his true identity. Unable to identify any collections from the door, he strolled around the gallery. Polite hellos were exchanged as he trailed his way around corners. Until he saw it. Under bright lights were three paintings depicting Batman. Taken aback by the nature of the paintings and the talent in the art, he approached, nearly speechless.

            The first in the set seemed like a typical depiction. Batman stood on a rooftop, Gotham below him. The sky held the bat signal. It was a relatively normal painting, executed so well it almost looked like a photo. The next two held the same quality, but the material was far more disturbing. The middle painting took place in an alley. In the forefront of the painting was a young woman lying on the ground in what looked like a puddle of blood and water. She was only half clothed; what was on her body was tattered and blood stained. In the background of the photo Batman held what Bruce assumed was a criminal in the air by the neck. The scene was startling, sending shivers down his spine. It was so raw looking. He averted his glaze to the final photo. It featured Batman standing in the middle of an unorganized office-type room. His shirt was off, revealing abs covered by scars. He wore pajama pants, but the mask remained on his face. In one hand he held a manila folder, flipped open with white pages spilling out onto the floor. A cup of steaming coffee was in the mother hand. In the background Bruce could see a large corkboard with pictures and red lines, seemingly connecting crimes and criminals in Gotham. A desk, as well as the floor, held piles of papers and folders- notes and scribbles. It was odd to see the scene- almost disturbing to have Batman in such a domestic environment.

            Bruce was so tangled in the paintings that it took him a few moments to notice someone was standing next to him. He didn’t even look out of the corner of his eye to assess the person before opening his mouth and saying, “These are pretty intense, aren’t they?”

            “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

            Startled, he turned, as did the woman next to him. He looked at her for a long moment, digesting her. In heels, she was just a few inches shorter than he. She was wearing a hugging red dress that had a square collar. It was the perfect length, falling in the middle of her thighs. Around her neck was a thin gold necklace. Her skin was fair, her face smooth. Her almond eyes held an exotic emerald green color, rimmed in a thin layer of black eyeliner, highlighted by her long eyelashes and sculpted eyebrows. He couldn’t tell if her high cheekbones were naturally flushed or lightly painted. Her nose was small and straight, with hard edges, and her full lips were coated in a red that matched her dress. Jet black hair was twisted into a perfectly unkempt bun, sitting low at the base of her head. Bruce couldn’t help but stare at her body in the dress; it showcased her hourglass figure.

            She, too, couldn’t help but marvel at Gotham’s mighty Bruce Wayne. She’d seen him in magazines and newspapers, even on TV. But in person he was so much more. She never expected such an air of mystery to surround the man. He oozed of secrets and sex appeal. Bruce Wayne was dangerously attractive, that was for sure.

            “You did these?” He questioned after quickly looking her over. “You don’t seem the type. Bruce Wayne, by the way.”

            “I know who you are, Mr. Wayne,” She smiled, trying to suppress a laugh. Of course she knew who he was. She’d lived in Gotham her whole life. “Giselle Yoder. I am the artist of these pieces, even though I apparently don’t seem the type… whatever that means.”

            He kissed her hand softly, and Giselle hoped her blush was concealed by her makeup.

            “I meant they seem pretty dark. You can call me Bruce, by the way. No need for formalities.”

            “Okay, Bruce,” Giselle prompted. “I’m sorry if my subject matter is startling for you, but art is about expression and emotion.”

            “And what kind of emotion do these paintings have? Why Batman?” Bruce questioned, trying too hard not to sound like he was interrogating her.

            “I was stabbed and raped eight years ago and Batman saved me,” Giselle said bluntly. She noticed her companion’s face changed, and she prompted an apology. “I’m sorry to be so frank, but you asked, and I think it’s important to understand the story behind the work.”

            Bruce instantly tried to remember her face. Eight years was a long time… a lot of bad guys, too much innocence lost. He scanned his mind trying to think of alleys and stabbed girls left for dead. He came up blank. Everything had blurred together. He could no longer remember faces and places, just the darkness of the city.

            “No, I understand,” He quickly recovered.

            “You understand being sliced from your stomach to your breasts and then being raped?” Giselle questioned defensively.

            “I didn’t mean it like that,” Bruce stated flatly. “You know that.”

            “It’s just a peeve of mine. Everyone always says they understand, but how do you understand a trauma you didn’t live through? How do you understand when you don’t wake up in cold sweats and have nightmares?”

            “I still have nightmares about my parents’ death,” Bruce contributed. His nightmares extended beyond their death, but he left that part out. “I understand what trauma does to a person.”

            Giselle blushed, and Bruce could see it. She quickly changed the subject.

            “Ever since that night I’ve been fascinated with Batman. Who is behind the mask? Is there even anyone behind the mask? How does one person- creature- whatever he is… how does he protect the city? Why? I’m sorry- I probably sound crazy. Only I would ramble about Batman in front of Bruce Wayne.”

            Bruce couldn’t help but smile at the irony of the situation, “Don’t apologize. Go on.”

            “I paint a lot of him,” She admitted. “But I decided to do a series. The first one is supposed to symbolize what we all think Batman is. It captures the heroic nature of the enigma that is Batman- on the rooftops waiting to serve justice. The middle is the night of my attack. What I remember of it. I blacked out after a while, going in and out of consciousness only to see Batman save me. That there, in the background, is the last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital. The last one is supposed to show Batman at home. I wanted to domesticate him without removing the idea that he is still the hero. Even if he takes off the costume, he is still Batman. I tried to capture the idea that justice never sleeps.”

            If only she knew. While the irony wasn’t lost on Bruce, he couldn’t help but cringe at her words. She was right. No matter how hard he tried to not be Batman… he still bore the weight of the city. Without his mask he may appear to be Gotham’s poster boy, but he was still their mysterious vigilante. He pressed himself further trying to remember Giselle. He would have to look her up later in the Bat Cave, but no matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t remember a girl being sliced open in an alley. How could he forget someone like her?

            “Anyway, it seems as if I’ve disturbed you beyond reason, so I’ll excuse myself. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne.”

            “I told you, it’s Bruce,” He interjected. “Thank you for your time; you are a wonderful artist. I’ll be seeing you, Miss Yoder.”

            He nodded and gave her a cocky grin before turning sharply and disappearing into the crowd. Giselle stood frozen for a moment. She was star struck. Not to mention seeing the one and only Bruce Wayne in person made her feel like a thirteen year old school girl. She tried her best to seem cool and collected, but inside she was screaming. She understood why all the girls fell over their own feet for the man. Her eyes darted across the room looking for her best friend, Molly. Molly wasn’t an artist. She was the farthest thing from an artist. One time in college Giselle had tried to teach her the basics and Molly ended up with a flesh wound and pencil shavings stuck in her hair for days. That Christmas, she ended up giving Giselle a homemade picture of the two made out of elbow noodles on pink cardstock. It was the thought that counted.

            Molly was there for emotional support. And for what she called ‘unavailable rich guys with a soft side’. From the day they met at orientation their freshman year of college, Molly was a little… boy crazy. She liked partying, boys, and math. She always said that numbers were a way to balance out the craziness she created. Her favorite way to get rid of a hangover was to crunch numbers. By days she worked in a bank, and at night she could be found club hopping and eating lobster with men in fancy suits. The blonde was complicated in a way that shouldn’t be- a way Giselle could never really explain but loved anyway. And at the moment, she was dangling off the arm of a boy much younger than she in slacks that barely touched his ankles, bright pink socks, and neon yellow suspenders. Not her type, and defiantly not an unavailable rich guy with a soft side.

            As Giselle crossed the room, she stopped only to grab a chute of expensive wine off the tray of a caterer. She nodded a thanks and held her finger to so the girl would stay put as she shot-gunned the flute and delicately placed it back on the silver plated tray. Under the disapproving stare of the young woman, she grabbed another and scurried off to her destination.

            “Molly!” Giselle whispered loudly, coming to a hard halt in front of the two. “I need to talk to you.”

            “About your encounter with the one and only Bruce Wayne? You dirty dog, you!” Molly exclaimed, her eyes wide. She turned to the unimpressed hipster and waved him away. “I’ll find you later, sweetie. I need some girl time, okay?”

            “How did you know?” Giselle asked, almost frantically.

            “It’s almost old news now, G. Don’t worry,” Molly smiled. Her bright red lips stretched across her tan face. “So, how is he?”

            “Handsome, charming… did I say handsome yet?” Giselle gushed, though she tried not to.

            “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so riled up,” Molly taunted. “Did Mr. Wayne get your panties in a bunch?”

            “He likes my art.”

            “He likes _any_ girls’ art if it helps him put another notch in his bedpost.”

            “I’m serious. He genuinely seemed intrigued with my display.”

            “Alright,” Molly put her hands up in defense. “So Bruce Wayne’s got some weird unresolved issues with Batman. Totally not creepy at all.”

            “I don’t know why you have to be such a bitch,” Giselle huffed before taking a big gulp of her wine. “Excuse me for being excited. It’ll never happen again. You’ll be stuck with a boring, apathetic best friend for the rest of eternity.”

            “You’re so melodramatic,” Molly rolled her eyes.

            “I don’t see why you have to ruin my excitement. It’s my first showcase at an art gallery. Not to mention an established gallery. This isn’t a coffee shop in downtown Gotham. It’s the real deal. And I debuted a set that is a little unorthodox, so sorry for being excited that there’s hype and that a local celebrity talked to me.”

            “Don’t be like that,” Molly sighed. “Get some more of that pricy booze in you and you’ll feel better. I promise.”

            “Way to encourage alcoholism.”

            “Debbie downer!” Molly exclaimed with a smile. “So, I’ll probably head to the Artic tonight with Phoenix. No, that’s probably not his real name so don’t ask me. Can you handle a cab home?”

            “Yeah, sure,” Giselle frowned. “Call me if you need me. Be safe.”

            “I know, Mom,” Molly rolled her eyes. It was a speech Giselle gave her every night in college. She knew the drill.

            “I’m serious. The Artic is in a shitty neighborhood. Don’t do anything sketchy, and don’t be afraid to call me.”

            “Never,” Molly grinned, then planted a sloppy wet kiss on Giselle’s cheek. “You’re doing great, GG. Don’t stress. Have a good night.”

            “Thanks, you too,” Giselle sighed, and then watched her best friend disappear into the crowd again.

            She waited until the sparkly black dress and head full of platinum blonde hair was no longer in sight before she turned away and made her way back to her display, dropping off another empty glass with a bow-tied youth. She hoped it was a caterer and not someone there for the art, but not enough to double check. While only having a little over an hour left in the gallery showing, the place was still busy with bodies. Giselle noticed more people gathering around her pieces, more words exchanged behind the protection of hands. A flash or two, prompted by security making a round trying to confiscate the unauthorized photography. Though she had made her friendly rounds to other artist at the beginning of the night, boredom set in and her feet began to ache from her stilettos, so she tried to keep moving to occupy herself. Another flute of alcohol elevated her to being a barely tipsy enough to keep a constant smile on her face. Finally when the crowd thinned and her feet were at a level of pain that made her wince, she headed to the front of the building to check out and leave.

            “Hey, Mandy,” She annunciated, leaning against the large glass desk near the doors. “So my feet hurt, my head hurts, and I think my tongue is about to fall out from talking so much. Safe to go?”

            “Wait a second!” She quipped, almost jumping into action.

            Giselle’s heart raced. She had done something wrong. Of course she had. Her first time at a big time gallery and she messed it up.

            “You were quite a success tonight. We’re very impressed,” Mandy, the curator grinned. “And we weren’t the only ones. Bruce Wayne was very interested in your work and bought the trio for… a substantial amount over the price tag.”

            “What?” Giselle questioned slowly.

            “He didn’t want to know the price. He just said they were worth the amount to him,” Mandy said, sliding a piece of paper in Giselle’s direction. “Of course, we get twenty percent.”

            Giselle choked when she read the yellow receipt transaction. She hadn’t wanted to sell the pieces at first. She was attached to them in a way she couldn’t describe. So when she priced them at five thousand a piece, she almost hoped they didn’t sell. But seeing thirty five thousand dollars printed next to Bruce Wayne’s signature was an unexpected pleasure.

            “You’re kidding me, right?” Giselle finally asked.

            “I tried explaining to him that the figure was way above the asking price, but he wasn’t having any of it. Billionaire stubbornness, I suppose. He also left you this… and said there would be a car outside waiting to take you home so you didn’t have to take a cab.”

            Giselle blushed slightly as she accepted the envelope. Mandy looked on with an expression of interest and jealousy as Giselle pried open the letter. Inside was a handwritten note, sprawled out quickly.

_Giselle,_

_I enjoyed talking with you tonight. Care to have dinner with me tomorrow night? Le Bernardin on 51 st at 5 pm. Hope to see you there. _

_Bruce Wayne_

            Even his signature looked expensive. Giselle clutched the note close to her chest to keep Mandy’s gossiping eyes away. She thanked the woman, who said she’d be in touch, then grabbed her purse from the back room and headed outside. To her pleasure, most of the photographers had parted. The money had gone, and so had they. She wasn’t used to bright flashes and big bulbs. After graduating with a degree in art history, Giselle spent a year in France working with an appraiser. When she got back to Gotham, she had a hard time finding a job, and after a year working retail, she found a position in an antiques shop. After a few years at the privately owned shop, she received a position at the Gotham Museum of Art as a restoration artist, and then worked her way up to appraisals. She was only at the GMoA for two years before she made the decision to commit more time to her personal art. She couldn’t afford to quit all together, so she agreed to cut her hours at the museum. Nothing glamorous. No lights, no press. The last year had only given her coffee shops and small galleries. Nothing like THE 46.

            Defiantly no limousines waiting for her on the street with a suited driver standing tall against the vehicle, awaiting her arrival. The middle aged man, upon spotting her, opened the door for her.

            “Mr. Wayne did not want you taking a taxi home, Miss Yoder. He sends his well wishes and hopes to see you tomorrow evening.”

            “Oh…,” Giselle was startled and taken aback by the events. She tried to be confident, but the entire night was a whirlwind of new experiences. She clutched her purse and the opened letter in her hands and nodded, climbing into the backseat. “Thank you very much.”

            The door shut and a moment or two later the driver slid into the front seat. He looked back in the rearview mirror only to ask her address. Giselle cautiously gave him her address and tried to relax. The leather seat was stiff and uninviting, and she felt like her dress was riding up. The entire silent drive, she sat with baited breath. Maybe Bruce Wayne didn’t leave this limo for her. Maybe it was a creepy kidnapper who saw they were talking and was trying to take her away and sell her on the black market. Maybe it was an elaborate prank. Or maybe-

            They came to a stop. Through the tinted windows, Giselle could see her brick townhouse, cozied between two other units. The driver was quick to jump out and open her door. He extended a hand to help Giselle stand up out of the vehicle. She accepted awkwardly, hugging her purse tight in her other arm. She thanked the man, and he responded with a nod. She could feel his eyes on her the entire time, almost burning holes into her backside. She fumbled for her keys, and once inside the comforting embrace of her home, took pleasure in securing all five of her locks. Molly had told her five was a little excessive. But Giselle was paranoid. She chalked it up to her attack… it could have been prevented if she were just a little less reckless… a little more attentive.

            One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Check.

            She let out a sigh of relief and finally kicked off her unfriendly heels. She padded into the kitchen and laid her purse on the island top, fishing out the note to read it once more. And then another time. Her tipsy gaze zoomed in and her heart fluttered.

            _Hope to see you there._

_Bruce Wayne_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since I've posted! My husband and I were busy moving. Now that we are all settled in and the holidays are over (well... almost over!), I can get back to my normal schedule. Enjoy! :)

           New curtains. New curtains were defiantly the first thing Giselle was going to buy with her commission money. Black ones that did not let one ray of sunlight in. She’d paint her entire house black and drape everything in luxurious, dark fabrics so she could maybe sleep away her hangover. Until then, though, she’d have to deal with her thin white panels. Who ever thought decorative curtains belonged in a bedroom? Not someone who didn’t enjoy waking up before their alarm every morning. Giselle gave a frustrated groan, and then winced as the light stabbed her splitting headache. She rolled over and grabbed her cellphone off the nightstand. It took a few blinks for her to fully wake up, but when she did, her heart skipped a beat.

            Two missed calls from Molly. Two voicemails.

            How did she not hear her phone ring? Giselle was wide eyed as she pinned into her voicemail. Her phone must have been on silent from the gallery the night before. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What if something happened? I told her I’d always be there for her. She could have gotten-_

            “GG!” Molly shrieked. Not the best way to start the recording, Giselle thought as her heart sunk. But the shriek was followed by laughter. “Oh my god, there are already tabloids with your face on them. Hello? Are you there? The Artic is insane right now. You totes should have came with us. Phoenix got the hook up on some really good – WHAT. Hold on GG, baby. Phoenix, no, come on! I wanna stay. Hold on, hold on, hold on! GG I gotta go. Love ya!”

            Giselle let out a sigh of relief as she deleted the message. She didn’t get drunken voicemails very often. Molly must have really let the cap off the bottle last night. As Giselle started the next voicemail, she was immediately met with a mixture of giggles and moans. Her finger was quick to hit the delete button. She’d heard enough of that in college.

            Gathering the strength to climb out of bed, Giselle slowly crossed her bedroom and into her bathroom. Her townhome was modest, but she was proud of where she was. Sometimes bills cut a little too deep into her savings. Sometimes her neighbors were too loud, or they made fish for dinner and the smell seeped through the walls. But her two story, two bedroom townhome was perfect for her. In a world where she was always on edge, her home was a security blanket. And her favorite part- it was well lit. No dark alleys, no creeping corners or tiny nooks. Cookie cutter, bright, neighborhood.

          She fished some Advil out of the medicine cabinet and forced it down with sink water. She let the shower water run for a long minute, letting the bathroom steam up, before she stripped and stepped in. Going through the motions, she thought about her date later on that night. After mentally going through her wardrobe, she decided she had nothing worthy enough of Le Bernardian. Not even that sparkly gold dress she wore a few years back in Paris when she had a night out with her boss’s son. She needed something exquisite. Something for Bruce Wayne. She needed to go shopping.

          With a little more pep in her step, Giselle quickly got out of the shower and blow dried her hair. She padded back into her bedroom and picked up her phone. 10:22. Way too early for Molly to be awake, especially after a night out. Shrugging, Giselle dialed her number and hummed along to the ringback tone. On the last ring, a very groggy Molly answered the phone:

“What.”

“Hi, nice to talk to you too,” Giselle said enthusiastically into the phone.

“What’s up your butthole?” Molly mumbled.

“Bruce Wayne asked me to dinner. And I need to go shopping. So wake up and be happy, because I need your help.”

“That’s right,” Molly mused, more awake, “I remember hearing everyone buzzing last night about Bruce Wayne’s new girl and I was all like ‘that’s my best friend’ and then I don’t know much of what else happened.”

“Yeah, I know,” Giselle sighed. “I’ve got two voicemails from you. Tell Phoenix good morning, by the way.”

“Whoops,” Molly giggled into the phone.

“Seriously though, Moll. I don’t have anything to wear. And I’ve got kind of a pretty penny from last night, so I want to get something nice.”

“Go on…”

“I just sold all my pieces way above their asking price, that’s all.”

“Let me guess- Bruce Wayne?”

“Bruce Wayne,” Giselle confirmed. “I’m supposed to be at Le Bernardian at 5 so-”

“Ooooh,” Molly cooed. “Fancy, fancy.”

Giselle started where she left off, “So I want to go shopping like… now… so I can maybe get my hair and makeup done too?”

“You didn’t put this much effort into your appearance at your first major gallery showing, GG. I’d say you fancy Mr. Wayne.”

“No!” Giselle said defensively, though she was blushing. “I just… don’t want to make a fool out of myself. He’s rich and handsome, which is obviously every girl’s dream. But he was also really mysterious. And he didn’t mind me rambling about Batman. And! And! What if I look dumb tonight and all these rich _potential customers_ at the restaurant see me looking foolish and then I become a flop of an artist and never sell anything ever again and I’m resolved to moping the floors at your bank every night to make rent.”

“Well that is a gross hypothetical situation,” Molly declared with a laugh. “Don’t stress. I’ve gone on plenty of dates with rich guys. They just want you to look pretty and laugh at all their jokes. Listen, I’ve got to kick Phoenix out and shower, and then I’ll pick you up at your place in like… an hour or so?”

“So two hours?” Giselle joked.

“We don’t have two hours. For real, be outside in an hour and…. ten minutes.”

“If you say so, Princess,” Giselle huffed.

         They bid their goodbyes and Giselle wondered how to pass the hour… which she was certain would turn into two hours. Molly was never on time. It was one of her defining qualities. She was even late for her job, but she did it so well (and was such a social butterfly) they didn’t mind her strolling in a half hour late every day. While Giselle still needed to get dressed, she wasn’t sure it would take her super long. She weighed her options and decided to drop her towel and put something on anyway. She had always hated women in salons who got ready just to go get their hair done. But Giselle didn’t want to stroll into a fancy boutique wearing tattered jeans and a baseball tee.

          She decided to keep her dark locks natural for the trip, since she planned on getting her hair done. Her black mane was wavy and voluminous. She put on a black peplum top and super skinny jeans paired with black stilettos. Though she also planned on getting her makeup done, she didn’t want to go out with a nude face. She quickly brushed on a thin layer of foundation and put on a little bit of black eyeliner and red lipstick. A few squirts of perfume and –

**HONK. HONK.**

          Giselle looked up in terror at the clock on the wall. _Shit_. A little more than an hour had passed. Somehow. She wasn’t sure where the time had gone, but she was sure that she was starving. She had planned on whipping up something quick while waiting for Molly. A quick peek out the window revealed it was in fact her friend in her red Fiat, honking her horn. _Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m never late. Molly won’t let me live this down._ Giselle frantically grabbed a black quilted Chanel bag, tossing her lipstick, phone, wallet and keys in as she spun downstairs as fast as she could in her heels. On her porch she expertly locked up her home and turned to face a gloating Molly.

“I told you an hour!” She laughed through the window.

“Shut up,” Giselle muttered, lowering herself into the Fiat. “You’re always late.”

“At least you look good,” Molly teased.

“At the cost of some waffles and toast. I’m starving, Moll.”

“We can run through and get some coffee and a snack, but you don’t want to bloat yourself up before we head over to Legacy.”

“Legacy?”

“It’s this boutique I found a few months ago on 4th street. They’re a high end clothing consignment shop, so they’ve got great designers for a decent price. I know you’re sitting on some money, but I also know how big of a tight wad you are.”

“I appreciate it,” Giselle rolled her eyes with a smile. “But about that coffee and snack?”

        The two decided on a coffee house that was close to the boutique they’d be shopping at. Kill two birds with one stone. They found parking and scuttled into the cozy coffee house, full of warm hues and exposed wood. After fueling up on lattes and bagels, they strolled down the street to a place Giselle had never even noticed before. She didn’t know how she’d never seen Legacy. It wasn’t like she frequented the hip 4th street very often. But she had drove down the road a few times and never had she spotted the store with a bright blue canopy displaying their name. The large glass panes in the front of the store featured mannequins posed and dressed in stunning frocks under the light of a crystal chandelier. Giselle was a little nervous as they walked inside. The door chimed behind them.

         The square room was compact, like most stores on the main strip. However, unlike most stores, it had a lofted space that overlooked the main shopping floor. The walls were a stark white featuring dark wood shelves and racks for clothes. The sales floor featured expensive looking navy blue chairs and stools and glass tables. The store was bright, with chandlers that matched the window’s hanging at varying heights. The railing that led to the upstairs area was draped in luxurious beaded garlands of blues and whites. Floor displays featured jewelry and shoes. The clerk stood behind a glass counter, tapping away on her cell phone as they walked in. Another associate approached with a broad smile. She looked like a model; her blonde hair was pin straight and tapered off at her breasts and her face was adored with makeup that only helped create the illusion of perfection.

“Hi ladies!” She announced with pep. “My name is Betty, I’m the manager here at Legacy. I’m here to help you find the perfect outfit. Is there a special occasion you’re shopping for or are you just browsing?”

“Actually,” Molly grinned, “My friend here has a very important date tonight and wants to really wow the guy.”

“Perfect!” Betty exclaimed. “You have an amazing figure- I’m sure we’ll find something for you.”

Giselle, who had felt completely out of place, finally piped up, “I want something sexy, but I want to look elegant still. I don’t want to show up looking like a college girl when I’m in my late twenties.”

“That won’t be a problem, I’m sure,” Betty ushered them towards the stairs. “I already have a few pieces in mind, if that’s okay.”

“That’s more than okay,” Giselle nodded. “I’m not really sure where to begin.”

         Like a scene from a movie, Giselle was taken from Gotham and transported into another world. She felt like a Queen. The three briefly waltzed around the room looking at pieces, and once Betty got a better understanding of Giselle’s style, took her to the dressing nooks and handed her a few pieces. Shimming in and out of designer dresses and modeling them for her friend and the store manager made Giselle feel so luxurious. She was sure she looked like an idiot from how much she was smiling, but she couldn’t keep herself from grinning. Then, even with her hair down and only a brush of makeup on her face, Giselle looked at herself in the mirror wearing the perfect dress. She stepped out.

         The black dress featured a long neck, dipping slightly down past her breasts. On either side of the dress there were small, petal shaped cut outs that were replaced with a sheer mesh. The skirt part of the dress was high, starting at the cutouts and going down to just above her knees. With the deepness of the v sized neckline and the sheer sides Giselle almost didn’t try it on, for fear of it being too revealing. Once it was on her body, she was even more unsure. Her breasts filled it and her curves hugged the black garment. But once she looked at herself in the mirror, she knew. Betty and Molly seemed to enjoy it just as much, as Molly squealed in excitement. Betty excused herself down the stairs for a moment, then appeared with a pair of shoes and a clutch in one hand and jewelry in the other. Giselle slipped on the black suede pumps with a silver leather pointed toe and an ankle strap, then allowed Betty to snap the thin gold necklace featuring two tiny studded bars connecting each side. The outfit, paired with the clutch in her hand the accessories adorning her body, was surly enough to make Mr. Wayne swoon. At least Giselle hoped.

          After changing out of the outfit, her jeans and peplum didn’t seem as nice. Betty and Molly were waiting at the register. Her ensemble totaled nearly two thousand dollars, but Giselle didn’t care. Betty gave a recommendation of a salon across the block and down a few stores, telling them they’d happily finish getting Giselle ready completely at the building. After assuring they’d be back, the two girls left the store, stopping at the car to put more money in the meter. Excitedly, giggling like schoolgirls, the two walked down to ‘Fern’s Salon’, per Betty’s recommendation.

          The salon was full of rich hues of greens and brows, with plants in the windows and every corner of the shop. The two introduced themselves and Giselle gave a quick rundown of her needs- being sure to tell Fern she had to be at the restaurant in almost exactly three hours. Giselle was quickly at a table, getting black acrylic nails with gold tips applied. She was jetted off to a hair dresser next, and the two (with much input from Molly) settled on a chic side chignon style. Molly helped Giselle wiggle into the dress and put on her necklace before the cosmetologist applied the makeup. Giselle felt like one of her paintings as the woman worked on her, applying layers of makeup. Ultimately, when she looked in the mirror, she was stunned at how much sexier the makeup made her look. A deep smoky eye paired with a winged eyeliner and a hint of gold shimmer, false eyelashes, and a stunning plum lipstick made Giselle feel like a walking sex symbol.

          It was nearing 5, and Giselle issued Molly to drop her off at Le Bernardian. The luxurious French restaurant was in the business district of Gotham, nestled between a slur of other expensive restaurants. With her best friend’s well wishes, Giselle took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. Walking with a new found confidence, she walked up to the building. She could feel the eyes of the man opening the door on her body, and she couldn’t help but smile.

          Inside, she could see a man in a suit on a platform playing the piano. There were tables surrounding him with couples placed sporadically, so they wouldn’t be bothered with the conversation or presence of others. She quickly turned and approached the man behind the pedestal.

“I’m supposed to meet Mr. Bruce Wayne here this evening.”

“But of course!” He smiled, his icy demeanor turning warm. “Let me show you to your seat.”

Giselle hadn’t noticed the winding stairs on either side of the room, and she defiantly hadn’t noticed the lofted dining area above. The man led her up those stairs to a setting even more intimate. The area was completely empty, though a candle was lit on every table. With deep red velvet draped off the walls and the rich mahogany accents, the loft oozed of elegance.

“Mr. Wayne requested the loft for the two of you, as to not have any distractions,” The man informed, as he pulled out her chair. “We also have one of our finest bottles of Cheval Blanc waiting for you here, Miss Yoder.”

“Oh!” She exclaimed, as he poured her a glass. “Thank you very much, sir.”

He nodded, “Have a wonderful evening.”

          As he left, Giselle closed her eyes and let the soft piano music wash over her. She was on edge, waiting for Bruce to arrive. She was surprised he wasn’t there when she arrived, as she was barely on time. A few minutes passed, and she took a long sip of her wine, growing a little agitated at his absence. With a few more minutes, she took another drink. A routine formed, and the music below became an annoyance. She refilled her wine glass two times, each a little more than the last. Finally, as the clock neared six, Giselle had decided she had had enough of waiting. She’d had enough of Bruce Wayne. Lightly buzzed, she fished out her phone and called to have a cab waiting immediately. She guzzled down another glass while waiting for her confirmation call from the driver.

        Angrily, she descended the stairs. She passed the man from earlier in the evening, brushing him aside when he tried to approach her. She stormed out of the building and into an onslaught of paparazzi, taking her off guard. Giselle caught her composure briefly, not wanting to look like a fool in front of even more strangers. She climbed into the cab, softly giving him directions to her house. The lights were blinding even through the car’s windows. Though Giselle wouldn’t normally take a cab, she let her anger overtake her fear. It was only once the restaurant and the lights were behind them that the sadness washed over her.

Bruce Wayne had stood her up.


	3. Chapter 3

Giselle had been awake for 26 hours, and she didn’t plan on sleeping any time soon. High on anger and sadness and fueled with a mixture of coffee and liquor, she had locked herself away in her spare bedroom she turned into a makeshift studio. When the driver dropped her off the previous night she sobbed while undressing. She couldn’t even look in the mirror while she undid her hair and wiped the stained makeup off her face. She sat naked on her floor, painfully removing the freshly put on acrylic nails. At some point she made it downstairs where she rummaged through her pantry to find an old bottle of whisky. It was untouched for a reason- Giselle hated whisky, but she was not about to leave her house and face whatever humiliations await. In the midst of tipsy epiphany, she stumbled upstairs and into her studio. She had been so hurt that she forgot what truly healed any broken heart, soothed any angry mind, or nursed any happy thoughts. Art.

            Surprisingly, she thought to herself, she had never painted naked before. Never in her teen years, and not even in Paris with a lover. Almost 30 years of life and it was the first time she experienced the liberation of smearing paint on her body. She used her body as a canvas first, swirling her fingers coated in red paint over her breasts and down her stomach. She traced her deep scar from her right side breast down past her belly button, shuttering at the sensation. She mixed blues and blacks and smudged some yellow until she stood in front of a mirror looking like a work of art. There she hit transcendence. She was a work of art.

            It was just past midnight when her phone began ringing in the other room. With the whisky settling into her belly and out of her mind, Giselle decided exit her sanctuary. Her phone screen bore missed calls and texts from Molly. She sent her a text back to ease her friend’s mind: **Hey, sorry. Things obviously didn’t work out… I’m home. I’m safe. I’m painting. I will talk to you tomorrow. Love you.** Molly grew accustom to Giselle’s periods of inspiration. Having been roommates in college- both in dorms and an apartment- she experienced all stages of the process. And she grew to understand it was the best form of therapy for Giselle. It offered more than her words ever could.

            Instead of going straight back to her studio, Giselle lingered on her phone. Out of curiosity, she opened up Gotham’s gossip magazine’s website. Pictures of her, obviously angry and distraught, leaving Le Bernardian were the top 3 stories. She let herself get caught back up in the anger of it. She let herself feel the embarrassment. It wasn’t until she read a headline: _Bruce Wayne Will Regret Standing This One Up!_ that her stomach stopped flipping. Even in those pictures she looked fierce, sexy, and confident. Knowing that a gossip rag headline had to reinforce that made Giselle want to throw up.

            She was beginning to tire, but was covered in paint and in the middle of an artistic voyage. She went down to her kitchen and prepared her coffee pot. Balancing a pot full of water and a coffee cup, she carefully ascended the stairs where once again locked herself away. Once the intoxicating fumes of the coffee filled the room and cleared the fog from her mind, she set up her canvas. She had decided earlier in the evening she was going to paint herself- not literally this time, but in the form of a self-portrait. Just as she was, standing there naked smeared in paint. She chose a larger canvas, probably half her size. It wouldn’t fit on the easel properly so she propped it up against the wall. She positioned her tall mirror at an angle so she could see herself as she worked. After analyzing her body, she gathered a palate of colors. Slurping down a cup of coffee, she prepared herself. And then she began.

            12 hours and she was reaching a halfway point. For a portrait, never the less one that size, Giselle felt she was making good time. Giselle hadn’t studied her body in a long time. It was a lot different than when she was 21. Hell, it was a lot different than when she was 24. At 29 she stood and saw every freckle and every curve. She stared at the faint stretch marks near her breasts and on her thighs. And her scar… Most days she tried forgetting it, but that night she felt the ridges and examined the colors. She thought she knew herself- her body, but you don’t really know yourself until you stand under bright lights in front of a mirror naked for half a day.

            The painting itself was shaping into something beyond what Giselle had ever imagined. A blend of realism and expressionism, it portrayed flashing camera lights flanking either side of the canvas while in the middle of the portrait stood Giselle, naked and covered in paint. She replicated the dried marks on her body exactly onto the canvas. The piece was growing, and she did not plan on stopping until it was done. It was Sunday afternoon, and she estimated it would be done early Monday morning. She had already planned on calling in at least one vacation day for the week. She could maybe stay up two days straight painting something for herself, but staying up any longer to assess other people’s work was not something she would do willingly.

            The doorbell rang. Giselle perked up, but decided to ignore it. She was, after all, naked and in the middle of painting. But when it rang again and again she set down her brushes in frustration and screamed **HOLD ON** down the stairs, assuming it was Molly, before carefully putting on a pair of black cotton athletic shorts and an old white tank top. She grabbed a hair tie from her dresser and twisted her mane up while she shuffled down the stairs. Out of normal precaution she peeked through the small hole in the door. Her breath caught. It wasn’t Molly. It was Bruce Wayne.

            She took a step back and forgot how to breathe. He was the last person she wanted to see. Ever. Especially here, like this.

            “I can see your shadow, Giselle… I know you’re there,” He said softly through the door. “Can we talk? Please? I just want to explain myself.”

            Carefully, she leaned forward and looked out again. He was leaning against the door with one arm above him. His face was close to the peep hole, almost as if he were using it as a microphone. She watched as he let out a frustrated sigh and hit the door, startling her, before dropping both arms and turning away. She scooted closer to the door as hustled down the steps. Something inside urged her to open the door. She fought the rising plea. She stuffed it down, telling herself she had just stayed up all night finding herself. She was a different person now, overnight. She defiantly didn’t need Bruce Wayne.

            But as much as she didn’t need him… She opened the door.

            “Bruce!” She called out, internally screaming at herself.

            His hand dropped from his car and he turned to look at her. After a brief second, he gave a weak smile and jogged across the street and back up her steps. And there he was. Bruce Wayne, in front of her. How it should’ve been the night before. But instead of wearing an expensive dress and having her hair and makeup done to make her look just sexy enough, she was standing in front of him in clothing that was years old while she was covered in paint being the farthest thing from sexy. He still looked good, she noted, as he wore tailored navy blue shorts and a short sleeve blue and white plaid button up. His hair was just messy enough and his jaw bone was still sharp enough to kill a man. He was Bruce Wayne. And she… she was Giselle Yoder.

            “I’m sorry,” He offered after a long minute of tense silence. “There was an emergency at the office and I had to take care of it immediately.”

            It was the story of his adult life. Bruce always had ‘office emergencies’. There was no plausible way to say there was an arsonist targeting orphanages and shelters and he had to suit up and fight crime. Well, no way to say it and sound sane. Bruce found out early on it was best to keep people at a distance. He’d had too many close calls. It was irresponsible to have a love life as Batman. But as Bruce Wayne, he had an appearance to uphold. He played the look of billionaire playboy well, especially in his younger years. To be honest, he used to enjoy it quite well. But as he aged things changed. At 33 he was by no means old, but life was taking a toll on him. He found himself longing for a confidant, a friend, a partner, a lover. But there’s no way to be the night, the safety blanket of a city, while also having a wife. He could never do that to a person. Especially someone he loved. So he continued to be a playboy, though admittedly, he took less and less of the girls home.

            That was never his intention with Giselle. She was a spark of fire, a breath of fresh air. She seemed so put together at the gallery. The last thing she needed was Bruce to unravel her life, but he couldn’t stop himself. She was stunning, and though put together, she was obviously cracked. Just like him. He had the perfect chance to have her. But crime doesn’t stop for date nights.

            She stood in front of him, disheveled and covered in paint, and he wondered what exactly she had been doing. He knew artists often turned to canvas instead of the comforts of a friend or the bottom of a bottle. His curiosity was sparked, but his heart ached knowing he’d caused her pain. He could see it in her eyes then, and he could see it from the photos of her leaving the restaurant. Though he tried to stop himself early that morning from indulging in the gossip magazines, he just wanted to see how beautiful she looked. He thought of it as a form of punishment to see her in that incredibly sexy dress looking like a queen and to know she could’ve been his.

            “I’m sorry,” He said again, after his initial apology was met with silence.

            “I don’t know what to say to you,” She finally spoke, her words delicate.

            “I know.”

            Giselle’s eyes danced around his face. He was sincere, and in his eyes she could see so much sadness and pain. But it wasn’t an excuse.

            “You could’ve called the restaurant,” She said. “Something, anything- would have been better than standing me up.”

            “I know, but there was an emer-”

            “An emergency, I know,” She snapped.

            He bit his lip and looked away. For a moment, she felt bad. She felt bad for yelling at him. Him! The man who she spent thousands of dollars looking good for only to be stood up and publicly humiliated. But his eyes…

            “I know you won’t forgive me, but I thought I’d at least try. Let me make it up to you.”

            “I don’t need your pity, Bruce,” She said almost immediately. “And I defiantly don’t need to be stood up again.”

            He nodded, “The response I assumed I’d get. I deserve it, but I’d like another chance.”

            She uncrossed her arms and her head dropped. There was no way she was thinking about it. Absolutely no way. No way in hell. No. No. No. Don’t look at his eyes. Don’t look at him.

            “I can’t,” She murmured to the floor. She mustered the strength to lift her head and offered a pained look. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m not a young girl who doesn’t know any better. I don’t need that right now. I’m just…”

            “I understand,” Bruce swallowed. He wasn’t used to being on the other side of rejection.

            “Thanks, though,” Giselle tried to offer, though both could tell how insincere it was.

            Bruce extended an arm and briefly rested his hand on her shoulder. Her pale skin was as smooth as he imagined- better than it looked. He couldn’t help but lean forward and place a gentle kiss on her forehead. God, was he good at torturing himself. Giselle tried not to emote the shivers running down her spine or that her heart was slowly inching up her throat. Bruce quickly turned and closed his eyes before taking a step. Sharply, he spun, taking Giselle off guard. He fished his hand out of his pocket and extended a piece of paper, a corner torn from a page, with his number etched on in dark black ink.

            “In case you can ever forgive me,” He said, and once she took the paper, he turned again and descended the stairs and crossed the street.

            Giselle watched as he climbed into his extremely expensive looking black sports car and sped off down the road. Just like that he was gone.

            And both were left with thoughts of what could’ve been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a short one, but in this case I think it gets the point across better than a longer update! Thanks for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

            A few weeks had passed and both Giselle and Bruce returned to their normal lives. With her brief triste over and a fluffy bank account, Giselle settled back into her boring routine of work and art. She finished her self-portrait, and fell so in love with it that she decided to paint more of her body. She started with her stomach, eager to paint her once cumbersome scar. She bought black curtains for her bedroom. And with the help of Molly, she burned the little black dress she wore to Le Bernardian. While she tried erasing all traces of Bruce Wayne, he still existed inside her. Every night when she lay down his face appeared. Every time she entered her studio she saw traces of him in her paintings. And the piece of scrap paper with his phone number jotted down on it was hidden in the bottom of her sock drawer. As for Bruce, he didn’t have a normal. His 9-5 job was anything but regular, and anything but 9-5. He hated to admit that he was glad there was an alarming spike in crimes sweeping through Gotham. It was at least something to distract him from Giselle. He could try to distract himself, but in the darkness he still sought her. Every night for a week after he left her porch he ran previous cases, still not remembering the fateful night of her accident.

            Until one night his screen flashed, indicating a match was found. His stomach churned as he leaned forward into the file. Now he remembered her. She was fragile in the alley, as any 21 year old who had been brutally attacked would be. He held her while the ambulance was on its way. There was no reasonable way he could have transported her to the hospital, so he was left with no option but to wait for the extremely slow vehicle. Those ten minutes were some of the longest in his life. The girl with her guts almost spilling from her body, the one he thought had died at the hospital, was alive. Fate would lead him to her again.

            Bruce was once again in the cave. He had been spending most of his time there, to be honest. Gotham was on an upswing of crime. Like any dutiful vigilante, he put in his fair share of time off the battlefield. He was running fingerprints when an alert notice popped up on his monitor. There was a bank robbery going on at Gotham Central Bank and the situation was extending beyond the police’s reach. Bruce tilted his head back and groaned.

            “I’m the darkness for a reason,” He murmured to himself as he suited up. “I don’t do day crime. How many calls have I gotten the past month during the day? Three. This makes three. But can I say no? Nope.”

            Disgruntled, Bruce engaged in his routine. Suit up, systems check, hop in the Batmobile. Routine. But the rest of the night was going to be anything but routine.

            Working during the day proved so much more difficult than the evening. Without the darkness his identity was more exposed, both as Bruce Wayne and Batman. His features could be noted more easily, and criminals very obviously could see a man in a bulky black suit against a sunlit wall. For the first time since becoming Batman, since transforming into the night, he was much more intimately exposed. _At least I’ve got over a decade’s worth of training to help me out_ , he thought as he stealthily approached the bank, parking his Batpod in the closets alley, locking it up with automated protective steel plates. He’d have to bypass the police surrounding the building somehow. His plans of approach from the back were thwarted when he saw Gotham PD’s nearly in its full surrounding the building. The number of officers made Bruce dread what was on the inside.

          Quietly grappling to the roofs, he simultaneously ran a blueprints check on the bank, locating the vent system. Bruce hoped he hadn’t caught the attention of the police when he transitioned from the roof of the jewelry store, which was nestled tightly against Gotham Central. Double checking the blueprints, he eased his way into the venting system, clasping onto the sides of the warm metal as he inched downwards. He would exit, if all went as planned, in the employee lounge near the rear of the building. He could only hope it was clear from the robbers, whoever they were.

          Bruce exited the vent system as quietly as he could to an empty lounge. The bank was eerily quiet. Atypical for a bank robbery. He was going in blind, unaware of the situation or how many robbers there were. All he knew is Gotham needed him. And Batman always delivered. As expected, there was a robber posted at the back entrance to the bank. He tried to gauge who was the mastermind behind the situation based on the attire and demeanor of the robber. However, he wasn’t wearing a silly costume or a gimmicky mask. He was in all black with a plain hockey mask covering his face. In his hand he held a machine gun. Bruce retracted his camera and nudged himself in the corner of the door, waiting until the assailant had his back turned (he had been frequently turning to check on the police) before he cracked open the door. Gotham Central had been taken care of- it was the pride and glory of the financial district. Bruce let out a sigh of relief when the door didn’t make any noise. He quickly came up behind the man, subduing him via a chokehold. Bruce fished out a pair of regular handcuffs and attached the unconscious robber’s hands behind his back. He disarmed the weapon and put it in the lounge on his way through the small hall to opened into the bank’s lobby.

         Like a fox, Bruce crept low and slow to the end of the hall that opened up behind the teller’s counter. His presence made a few of the workers gasp, and with one quick movement, he ushered them to be quiet. He approached one of the women, an young, fresh faced brunette who was trying her best to stay calm.  

_Who is here?_ He mouthed, _how many?_

       She took a shallow breath, partially struck by the presence of him in front of her, before mouthing back _A few- 4? I don’t know. They all have guns_. _They have one of the accountants hostage. I think they’re in the safe. They cut through the door_.

       He thanked her before shuffling closer to the edge of the teller’s counter, trying to think of his best course of action. There was no way to be stealthy anymore. With a hostage, he needed to be extra careful. He used his camera to peek around the corner… only one robber was standing in the middle of the bank floor. He had a gun to the head of a blonde woman. She looked so familiar… _not now, Bruce_ , he warned himself, _Stay focused. Get her safe. Get them all safe._

       He unclipped a new technology from his belt, a disruptor that could jam a gun from within 30 feet. The only downside is the jam is momentary and the disruptor took an extremely long time to regenerate. However, it was perfect for a situation like this. Before he used it, though, he needed his next step. He couldn’t go in without a follow up plan.

“We’re ready!”

_Shit,_ Bruce swore. He had waited too long. He clicked the button on the disruptor, praying it worked, and sprung out from behind the counter disarming a slew of Batarangs. His presence caused the man keeping the accountant hostage to try to fire his weapon, resulting in her screaming and slipping out of his grasp to wiggle across the floor while the resulting attack happened. The other two men, who had emerged from the safe, began to fire. One had been disarmed with the Batarang, but quickly recovered during the commotion.

       Bruce swept across the bank floor, dropping small smoke bomb pellets in his wake. They created a thick haze in the room, and Bruce hoped the rest of the hostages would seek safety. The rest, he found out as he tripped over the lifeless body of a patron, might night be as many as he thought. Through the smoke he was able to come up behind one of the gunmen and quickly taze him into submission. Once unconscious on the floor, he dodged bullets to disarm the next closest gunmen. However, the hail of bullets drew the attention of the police, who couldn’t stand by helpless any longer. A small SWAT team barged into the building, creating even more of a hassle.

_This is why I don’t work in the daylight._

        Bruce could see the hostages trying to escape through the front door. The blonde, who had been at gunpoint earlier, was standing stationary helping aid the frightened patrons out into safety. The blonde, who looked so familiar… so familiar… the art gallery. He had seen her at the gallery over a month ago with Giselle. _No._ In slow motion, Bruce watched as one of the gunmen turned his weapon to the door and emptied his gun. The SWAT team riddled his body with bullets as the blonde woman, as well as a few other citizens, fell to the ground. _No._ Too much damage had been done already. It was his turn to escape.

 

* * *

 

 

        Giselle was moving in slow motion. She was watching a cooking show when the alert popped up- there was an armed robbery at Gotham Central Bank. She immediately picked up her cell phone and called Molly ten times, each time going to voicemail. It was past 5, there was no way Molly had stayed over. Hell, she normally left a few minutes early. So there was absolutely positively no way her best friend was stuck inside that building as a hostage. When the last voicemail message beeped , Giselle welled with tears. There was no way Molly was there… but she still threw on her shoes and hitched a cab faster than she ever had before to Gotham Central.

       The ancient building was surrounded by officers and vehicles. Yellow tape. Giselle waited amongst the press and family members, trying her hardest not to cry uncontrollably onto the elderly woman next to her. She kept dialing Molly’s number, though her hope was quickly fading. When the gunfire began, the police who didn’t enter the building herded the civilians farther away. Giselle didn’t want to budge. She watched in horrific anticipation as people began to flee the building. Not one of them was Molly.

        She pushed through the crowd to an officer. She begged and prodded for information until the body bags began pouring out of the building. Sirens pierced the air, but Giselle’s world went silent. The world fell dead when she identified Molly’s body. Molly, her best friend of a decade. Molly gave Giselle her first drink. She taught her how to put makeup on correctly. She showed her that life is worth it, even after she was attacked in the alley. The attack. Molly visited her in the hospital every day. She snuck her in snacks and Starbucks. She helped clean her wounds, holding her hand after surgery. She vowed to kill the man who hurt Giselle and cried with her many nights. She put up with all of Giselle’s quirks and long nights painting. They traveled across the United States and swore off men. She was Giselle’s backbone. Now her backbone was gone.

        A police officer drove Giselle home. She was motionless, numb… in a state of denial. However, when she shut the door behind her, the tears began. They came and came and came. Giselle dug through the closet in her studio and pulled out a giant plastic tub full of old memories. Tearfully, she popped the lid off. She trifled through the box for an old pink shirt with the white text- “GG AND MOLLS 4 EVA”. A small laugh escaped her mouth as she remembered the Christmas which Molly presented it to her. She had it made at a tee shirt shop the year of Giselle’s attack. They were blood sisters minus the blood and instead a super cool pink shirt. Giselle slipped it on and padded into her bedroom where she stripped down and put on a pair of fuzzy plaid pajamas Molly had gotten her years ago. Molly was ingrained in every aspect of her home, she thought as she carried the tub down and plopped it down on the ground next to her couch.

        Giselle went to pour herself a glass of wine then opted for the whole bottle. She’d need it to get through the tub. She couldn’t get but a few pictures, a few postcards in when the tears were too much. She laid on her couch and polished off the bottle. With a warm belly Giselle had a fleeting thought- the scrap paper at the bottom of her sock drawer with Bruce Wayne’s number on it. She couldn’t do this alone. Alone with her thoughts and a bottle of liquor, Giselle couldn’t do it. She couldn’t think… breathe. She dialed a very surprised Bruce.

“Bruce Wayne speaking.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called,” Giselle sniffled into the phone. “I’m sorr-”

“Giselle?” Bruce questioned, his voice lifting. “Be quiet, I mean, don’t be quiet. What’s wrong?”

He knew what was wrong, but he needed to hear it from her.

“My best friend,” Giselle’s voice cracked. “She… died…. today at the bank. I don’t know what to do, Bruce. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you, but I needed to talk to someone.”

“Oh, God,” He sighed.

“I knew I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Stop apologizing, dammit!” Bruce swore into the phone. “Just… just don’t do anything stupid, okay? Don’t apologize. Don’t move. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Is that okay? Can you wait fifteen minutes for me?”

        Giselle hung up the phone. She’d made a mistake. Why call Bruce Wayne? The man who stood her up. The man she sent away. Billionaire playboy who had already written her off. She was surprised he even remembered her name. She figured he probably used her paintings for expensive firewood. Either way, she didn’t expect him to pick up. She didn’t expect the number to be real in the first place. And she really didn’t expect Bruce Wayne to be knocking on her door a short while after the call ended.

He looked at her with sad eyes, “Giselle…”

        He hadn’t known what to expect. Maybe not this. She was a mess, standing in front of him in pajamas wearing a face full of tears and tired eyes. Obviously on her way to blacking out, Bruce could see an empty wine bottle lying on its side and a fresh bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. There was a tub of what Bruce could only guess were old memories lying open next to the couch, half picked through. Memories and booze on top of a fresh wound don’t mix well. He was glad she called. He felt the weight of the shooting on his shoulders. All day he had thought of things he could have done differently. So many innocent lives were lost due to carelessness- at least that’s what he called it, blaming himself. When Giselle called, he was flushed with memories of her. God, did he miss the bits and pieces of her he knew. But this isn’t how he wanted to rekindle their romance.

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Nonsense,” Bruce said almost angrily, letting himself in. “I really need you to stop apologizing, Giselle. It’s not the best-”

        She burst into uncontrollable sobs. Acting quickly, Bruce closed the distance between them and let her rest her head on his chest. He delicately put his arms around her in a loose embrace. His shirt was moistening as she wept and she was having a hard time catching her breath. He helped her over to the couch, soothing her softly. She was stiff against his body, her guard up, as they sat there. Even while drunk and in the midst of tragedy she didn’t trust him, he thought to himself. Her cry was reduced to a few hiccups as she calmed herself. She even relaxed into Bruce’s side. And things went quiet. He felt comfortable with her in his arm, quietly breathing. Thinking she was sleeping, he adjusted into the couch and looked around the room.

         There was an openness to the space. The living room and kitchen were one big space, with the stairs leading to the second floor being directly in front of the front door and pressed hard against the far right wall. The entire room was painted a sage color. A white crown molding lined the room. The floors were all a dark, rich hardwood. The staircase was the same color of hardwood than ran along the floors, and the original railing accompanying the stairs had been painted white to match the rest of the room. The two were sitting on a plush cream colored sofa. Either side of the couch was flanked with pistachio green accent chairs with a white trellis pattern. A glass coffee table sat in the middle of the chair configuration on top of a plain, vanilla rug. Directly in front of the couch was a large focal piece, a fireplace with bricks painted white, with white built ins on either side. Above the fireplace was a television. The built ins were filled with books and art pieces, masterfully displayed. The whole room was full of art, as it should be.  The wall next to the staircase showcased a mixture of photographs and a few original art pieces. Above her desk, nestled into the transitioning space between the kitchen and the dining room, was a large painting of a flower field. The kitchen featured white cabinetry with a light brown granite counter. There was a long island to supply seating instead of using a dining room table with green and white colored stools. The kitchen didn’t feature stainless steel appliances, but they were new- a fresh white that almost clashed with the rest of the space. Next to the kitchen was a door, which Bruce assumed was a half bathroom.

           Relaxing into the couch, his arm growing tighter around Giselle, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Every night for the past four weeks he had dreamed about her. Sometimes he woke in a cold sweat with an aching erections, other he woke wanting to cry. He didn’t understand how he could long for someone he barely knew. Maybe it was the idea of her that he liked so much. When they first met, she lit up the art gallery. Her confidence radiated and she oozed so much sex appeal Bruce found himself with a lump in his throat. But unlike other sexy, confident women he had found company with, Giselle just seemed so… real. She knew pain, anguish, fear, determination. Her art reflected so many emotions. Her paintings of Batman twisted at every corner of his soul. He kept them hanging in his office at the Manor. He knew he should have done things differently that night he stood her up, but when you’re the protector of Gotham, there isn’t much to say.

           He had found himself absently rubbing circles on the soft skin of her lower back. He missed the luxurious feel to a woman’s skin. Though he was known as a playboy, the truth was he hadn’t touched a woman in nearly a year.

 “My mom died when I was in Paris,” She said quietly.

            Bruce shifted, “I’m… I’m sorry.”

            “My parents divorced when I was in elementary school and my dad never was really around. He lives in Florida with his new wife. I’ve got two half-brothers I’ve never met. Dad doesn’t even know about my attack. I didn’t want to bother him. Mom was always there, though. She was a nurse- she was always pulling weird shifts and late nights to pay the bills and send me to school. She was so excited for me to go to Paris. Molly called me one day and told me my mom was in an accident and died. I was so upset that I didn’t even go to the funeral.”

            Giselle sat up and looked at Bruce with the most heartbreaking eyes, “I don’t have a dad. I don’t have a mom. And I don’t have Molly. Everyone I love goes away.”

            Bruce’s heart ached. If only he could tell her. If only he could reveal his true self.

            “That’s not true,” Bruce told her softly. “Don’t think that, Giselle. Believe me, it’s a dangerous mindset to have.”

            She scooted to the edge of the couch and reached for the bottle of whiskey. Swiftly, Bruce intercepted, grabbing her arm. She was startled, letting a small gasp pass her lips.

            “You don’t need any more of that,” He said sternly.

            “What I don’t _need_ is your permission,” Giselle seethed, crossing her arms, though she didn’t reach for the bottle again.

            They sat in a tense, uncomfortable silence for a long moment before she leaned forward and picked something up off the tub. It was a macaroni picture of two stick figures. She started crying as she showed it to Bruce, explaining with a sad laugh, “Molly made this for me the first Christmas we had together. She was so bad at art, but she wanted to make something for me.”

            Bruce smiled. He wasn’t very _good_ at feelings- expressing them, receiving them. But he wanted to console Giselle, so he pressed,

            “How did, uh, you two meet?”

            Giselle dug through the tub a little and handed him a photo album, “We were roommates in college.”

            She didn’t waste a tipsy beat, snuggling up next to an eagerly inviting Bruce. He tried hard not to let himself get too comfortable with her, but she was making it damn near impossible. He flipped through the photo book tenderly, slowly. Giselle cried softly. Every so often she would perk up, letting out a sorrowful laugh as she pointed to a picture and told Bruce the story behind it. Pictures of the two sledding, at the Grand Canyon, in bikinis on the beach, at museums- pictures of the two as best friends flooded Bruce. Giselle was loved. He could feel it through the snapshots. And now because of his poor judgment at the bank, Giselle would go without that love. It was a spot he nor any other person could ever fill.

            Just as quickly as Bruce took his wall down, he built it back up. Brick by quick brick. He tensed and closed the book. As he leaned to set it on the coffee table, Giselle slid out of his arms and into the couch. She looked at him with furrowed brows.

            “What?” She questioned, wiping her eyes.

            “Nothing, I um,” Bruce stretched an arm behind his head. “I should probably go.”

            Giselle was torn between anger and heart wrenching sadness. Of course he would go. Who other than Bruce Wayne would use her as an emotional lay? Get her to spill her guts, cry her heart out, then leave?

            Through her tears she angrily spat, “Do you just get off on making my life miserable? Is it some game for you?”

            Bruce reached out, but she yanked away, continuing, “No! I was doing just fine without you, you pompous ass! You walk back in here, stir the pot because I was getting over you, and then just leave?”

            “May I remind you that you’re the one who called me?”

            “I was vulnerable and drunk. May _I_ remind _you_ that my best friend in the whole world is…”

            Giselle collapsed in tears on the couch. With a frustrated and hurt sigh, Bruce sat down next to her. She fought his embrace for as long as she could, but eventually let him squeeze her tight. Broken down and defeated, she found comfort in his arms. She felt safe. They sat in the comfort of one another. Giselle drifted in and out of sleep, and Bruce lost time watching her. He fell back into his comfort so much so that he fell asleep with her for a few moments. He woke with a jolt. Her skin against his was soothing, but not soothing enough to stop the nightmares. Bruce pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was a few minutes past midnight.

            _No Bat Signal? No alerts?_

            Something fishy was going on. Bruce needed to get back to the Cave. Analyze statistics and maps, cross reference police scanners. But first… he had to take care of the _adorable_ sleeping woman on his lap.

            Bruce carefully removed himself from under Giselle. He looked down at her. He couldn’t just leave her on the couch. Delicately, he picked her up and cradled her, carrying her up the stairs quietly as to not wake her. Directly at the top of the stairs was a bathroom, definitely not the right room. Two doors down he found her bedroom. He couldn’t make out many details in the dark. Luckily, years of thriving in the darkness sharpened his senses and he could soon navigate to the bed. He shifted to hold her completely with one arm while he peeled back the covers with the other. Once she was tucked in tight he turned to go. He stopped suddenly, twisting on his heel to turn back and leave a soft kiss on her forehead.

            “Please don’t go,” She murmured.

            No matter how hard Bruce tried, he would never be able to say no to Giselle’s soft bedroom eyes and her sleepy voice asking him to stay.


	5. Chapter 5

_This old sleepy town never even knew you were around. Now your setting stone will lie under the sun, the rain, the snow. Do you know, I’ll lay with you until I go? Do you know, I’ll lay with you until I go? Do you know, I’ll lay with you until I go._

_Hymnal – In the Valley Below_

 

 

Giselle took a long swig out of her water bottle, tucking it back into the pocket of her backpack as she turned to watch Molly struggle up the hill behind her. She couldn’t help but laugh. Molly, in her newly bought pink Nike’s and cotton shorts, hadn’t been totally prepared for the sporadic hike. In fact, she had protested it. She’d drove the last chunk of their trip and was ready to fall into the stiff motel bed. But Giselle was high on Utah’s fresh air and lush scenery, demanding they at least take one hike before they left the state.

            She stuck a hand out and helped pull Molly up to the solid patch of ground. Molly offered a brief thanks before pushing a few strands of flyaway hair back, smoothing them into her ponytail. She put her hands on her hips and let a heavy sigh.

            “I don’t think you know where you’re going,” She huffed.

            Giselle laughed and defensively stuck out the map pamphlet, shaking it as she said, “I’m following the trail!”

            “Sure you are,” Molly grinned. “We’re going to take the wrong turn and fall off a cliff and not be found until rabid dogs carry our half eaten corpses to the steps of some creepy mountain man who decides to keep our decaying bodies in a cellar for sex.”

            “Your imagination is _too_ much,” Giselle rolled her eyes. “Besides, this is a patrolled trail. They’ve got rangers who go up and down the mountain making sure everyone is safe.”

            The two began walking on the barely noticeable dirt path that wound through the overgrown shrubbery. The slight incline made their already aching calves’ sting and their faces dampen with sweat. Giselle kept her map handy, the thought of impending doom fresh in her mind. She was only a few months out of the hospital from her attack, and her therapist advised that while the fresh air would be nice, a cross-country road trip might not be the best course of action. Armed with her best friend and a thin savings account, Giselle disregarded the information and set out for the west.

            “You okay?” Molly questioned softly.

            “Yeah, yeah,” Giselle assured, nodding, “Just getting tired.”

            “We’ve still got to get back down this damn thing!” Molly exclaimed, though she still held the concern in her eyes. Giselle had been having a difficult time on the trip- jumping at strangers, crying constantly, waking up screaming from her nightmares. It was hard seeing her that way, but Molly did all she could to offer a supportive shoulder.

            They spent a half hour climbing and walking, trying hard to stay on the unmarked trail. By the time they approached the grassy cliff their feet ached and knives shot up into their legs. With water bottles dangerously low, they lingered on the knoll, marveling at the beauty spanning out in front of them. Molly flopped to the ground at a safe distance from the ledge and fell onto her back, letting out an exhausted sigh. Giselle followed suite.

            “We should stay here forever and build a cabin,” Giselle said. “We can adopt deer and squirrels and make apple pies every weekend. Oh! And wear really cool flannel shirts, even though it’s like a hundred degrees. We can have a wood stove and a bunch of guns to protect ourselves from bears that want to take the pies from our cabin.”

            “I think you’re getting loopy from the heat,” Molly giggled.

            “I’m serious. Well, not about the deer and flannel and pies. Maybe the pies.”

            “Your point?”            

            “My point is that it is so cozy up here. We can buy a patch of land and build our own house away from everything. We’d be safe and secure.”

            Molly rolled onto her stomach and propped herself up on her hands, “GG, you can’t hide forever. We’re running now, escaping it- or trying to, at least. But you can’t run from your own thoughts forever. If we somehow managed to build a cabin that was livable, your demons would catch up to you eventually. The first time we came across a strange hunter in the woods you’d freak out.”

            “Because horror movies have proven hunters in woods are up to no good,” Giselle tried joking.

            “I’m serious.”

            “I am too.”

            “This is nice- being isolated and secure. But you know what else is nice?” Molly proposed. “Getting overpriced lattes at that shop on the corner of Monroe Street. Having your mom over for spaghetti. The antiques store. Your paintings- how would you share your art with people who can appreciate it better than me? Let alone ever get a gallery showing? You’d never get to go to France or Greece or Spain. Or have a gazillion lovers and eat whipped cream from a foreign dude’s chest. Life is crazy and scary, but that’s what makes it life. That’s what makes it so great!”

            “I don’t think what happened to me constitutes as great,” Giselle sniffled, wiping her straggling tears away.

            “Hell no! What happened to you was cruel and unfair. But for each unfair moment there are a dozen other awesome moments. GG, you’re going to get super famous from your art and marry some hot intellectual who just _gets you_ and have a hip penthouse where you raise your adorable babies and drink wine at 2 pm with your crazy best friend while she talks about her recent trip to Fiji with her 19 year old boyfriend.”

            Through her tears, Giselle laughed, “That sounds about right.”

            “I’ll never try to pretend like I know how you feel. But as your best friend- as your sister- I swear to God I will try my hardest to comfort you and hold you and then show you that life is worth living. Life is beautiful. Look! Just look around us. There is so much more than dark alleys and drunk thugs preying on innocent girls.”

            The two pulled themselves upright and embraced, looking out at the abyss that trickled off the grassy ledge. Giselle’s therapist warned her she wasn’t ready to be in so many new places surrounded by strangers, but looking out into the painted blue sky while in the arms of her best friend, she was sure that everything would be okay.

           

           

* * *

 

 

            Giselle woke wishing she was still on top of that Utah cliff. She stirred, but kept her eyes closed tight, lingering in the memory. She held onto it until it faded into fuzzy pixels. Sitting upright, like a spring had pushed her up; she covered her face with her hands and began sobbing. A hand instantly rubbed her shoulders and a deep voice let out a strand of soft _hey, hey, hey’s._ Giselle froze, turning slowly, unaware that she wasn’t alone. She was far from alone. Bruce Wayne was holding her, his fingers circling tight patterns on her back.

            “You’re still here?” She sniffled, trying to compose herself. “I didn’t peg you for a morning after guy.”

            He looked at her with… disappointment?

            Giselle followed up, “I’m sorry- I just dreamed about…”

            “You don’t have to tell me,” He offered. “You weren’t fighting in your sleep, so it was probably a good dream.”

            “It was,” She said, tears dripping down her face again.

            Bruce tilted her face up and wiped away her tears with his thumbs. They were rougher than she imagined. Any trailing thoughts she had about the texture of his fingertips were replaced with a tingling sensation as his lips touched hers. He slinked his hand around her neck, his fingers weaving softly up into her tangled hair. Giselle forgot about Molly for a moment- forgot about the ache in her chest. It had been replaced with butterflies. She much preferred butterflies.

            He pulled away and looked at her with a half-smile. Giselle wondered how she could be so happy and sad at the same time. The butterflies in her belly had put on shiny armor and were standing tall, facing the spreading darkness that threatened to consume her insides. How could she be happy when her best friend had just been murdered? Her guilty thoughts fueled the darkness. The butterflies didn’t stand a chance.

            “Thanks for staying the night. You didn’t have to,” She said abruptly, looking away. Her hands gathered in her lap.

            Bruce felt the shift in the air, her changing body language. He didn’t press. He could see the demons. He was an expert at recognizing them. They stared at him every time he looked in a mirror. And though he wanted to forget himself and pull Giselle back onto the bed so her demons could seep into his skin while she cried, he instead just said,

            “I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

            “Such a gentleman,” Giselle joked sadly. “I’m sure last night ranks as your worst date ever. Not to mention this whole morning after thing- I’m defiantly road kill.”

            “I like you, Giselle,” Bruce bluntly stated. “I like you a lot. I didn’t come over last night in hopes for a date. I came because you sounded afraid and upset. And if you’re road kill, you’re the prettiest road kill I’ve ever seen.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t apologize.”

            “I’ve got to shower and uh, get around. I told Molly’s parents I’d meet them this afternoon to make… arrangements,” Giselle shuttered as she peeled herself out of bed.

            “I’d like to pay for the funeral,” Bruce was already grabbing his wallet out of his pocket.

            “No.”

            He peeked over his shoulder at her, “Molly is a hero. She saved a lot of people. She deserves to have the best funeral possible.”

            “And she will. Thank you, Bruce, but you’ve done enough already.”

            He pressed his lips for a long moment before nodding, “Okay. I better get going, then. I’ve got a lot of work to do this morning.”

            Bruce had slept a few hours. Giselle fit perfectly in his arms. He’d be damned if he didn’t let himself enjoy a soft bed with a beautiful woman. Even in his jeans, he slept better than he had in a long time. When he woke, he slivered out of the comfort of the bed and padded around her house. He spent more time than he’d like to admit in her studio, marveling at the art that surrounded him. He flipped through entire notebooks dedicated to sketches of Batman and studied a realistic painting of the scar that stretched across her body. He forgot it wasn’t real at one point, reaching out to touch the torn nerves. The sun was peaking as he left her studio. Not wanting to leave, but desperately needing to work on the robbery case and avenge Molly’s death, Bruce wedged himself back into bed and pulled out his handheld, doing as much work as he possible could from the safety of Giselle’s bed.

            Giselle followed him into the hall, “Of course.”

            The two lingered by the door. She didn’t want him to leave. He was secure. He was safe. He made her stomach flip and her eyes light up. But when your best friend is dead there isn’t time for front flips. Catching her by surprise again, Bruce kissed her. This time it was a little more desperate, his tongue parting her lips and dipping into her mouth. She leaned into the kiss, bracing herself against his iron body.

            “I’m sorry,” He breathed against her face, almost embarrassed.

            “Don’t apologize,” She mocked.

            Bruce couldn’t help but flash a pearly smile, though he spoke softly, “Will you call me tonight?”

            _This man is a box full of surprises_ , Giselle thought to herself as she nodded. He grinned and kissed her again, then excused himself. Duty calls, he shrugged as he lingered on the porch. He gave her a long look then jogged over to his sports car and disappeared down the road. Giselle closed the door, her hands lingering on the locks for what felt like hours, before she finally turned and face the unsettling emptiness that now surrounded her. Just as soon as she got her new shield he was gone.

            As she looked over at the looming tub of memories by the couch, the darkness in her stomach swallowed the last butterfly. She almost let herself collapse to the floor when a wave of déjà vu hit her. Almost instantly she was thrown back to her mother’s death. How cowardly she had been, staying in France and leaving her best friend to arrange the funeral. And though like a second mother to Molly, she never once batted an eye or pointed a finger at Giselle for staying in France. Instead she offered wisdom over the phone line, words that still sent shivers down Giselle’s spine.

_We all handle the sadness differently. Don’t let it the ocean consume you, GG. I know you. I know you’re staying away because you’re afraid. You have never liked facing your fears. You’re my sister, and I will fix this for the sake of you. Stay in France, but don’t let the sadness swallow you. I’m not there to hold you. So you’ve got to put on your best damn outfit and squeeze the bad thoughts out and you better be strong. Don’t be strong for the sake of yourself, don’t be strong for the sake of me. Be strong for your mom, Giselle. You have to be strong for her because there is nobody else who can hold that weight but you._

            She vowed to be strong for Molly. For the better part of their lives, Molly picked up the pieces of Giselle’s life. She was her backbone. Giselle knew she couldn’t regrow her spine overnight, but she had to try. She had to be strong for the memory of her best friend because there was nobody else- not Molly’s parents or coworkers or friends or lovers- who could hold the weight. Nobody but Giselle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally there's some movement forward between the two! These few chapters surrounding Molly are extremely difficult for me to write, but I think her death is crucial for the plot so here I am. Like always, comment, subscribe, etc. 
> 
> Until next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

_I wish you’d hold me when I turn my back. The less I give the more I get back. Oh, your hands can heal, your hands can bruise. I don’t have a choice, but I’d still choose you._ –

The Civil Wars

 

 

It was only fitting that it would rain the day of Molly’s funeral. Like all things in her life, the day demanded grand gestures and drama. Molly liked things bold and beautiful while leaning towards the beauty of a classic. One day she’d coo over Audrey Hepburn and the next she’d buy a high fashion dress she saw in a magazine on a young scarlette. She was an enigma. But it was that wild allure that made her so wonderful. She was the life of the party. She _was_ the party. Giselle always envied that.

            Not that Giselle didn’t have friends in high school or college. She was outgoing and sociable… though after meeting Molly, she often rode on her friends coattail. After her attack she partied less and worried more. As an adult she had a group of workplace acquaintances and Molly. And really, that’s all she wanted. She was happy, she couldn’t deny that. But when she saw pictures of Molly at clubs or heard stories about her most recent adventure, she couldn’t help but be jealous. Molly was just….

            “Giselle?” Bruce squeezed her hand comfortingly and offered a smile. “Are you alright?”

            “Just caught up in my head, that’s all,” Giselle said meekly back.

            She had called Bruce that night after a grueling and mentally exhausting day with Molly’s parents going over funeral arrangements. He answered on the second ring and listened to her cry. Surprising himself and Giselle, he offered sweet words and light jokes. It was definitely out of the ordinary for Bruce to talk with someone like that. It eased the worry in his mind that he was without ability to offer love. The next night she called again, and again he answered on the second ring (though he hadn’t slept in nearly 48 hours). Though he wasn’t as enthusiastic as the first night, he still offered a sturdy shoulder to lean on. On the third night she called, he let the phone ring twice again before answering. He’d be damned if he admitted it out loud, but he had been eagerly awaiting her call. He found himself missing her voice, his eyes drifting to the clock to count down until the hour she called. There was no fourth time, however. Because it was the day of Molly’s funeral.

            So many people had died at Gotham Central that the city was buzzing with over a dozen funerals, all scheduled closely together. Molly’s parents had opted to have the visitation and funeral at once- just to ensure they’d have a space for the service. Bruce had picked Giselle up at her house. Alfred bore the pouring rain to offer an umbrella as she descended the stairs. He scolded himself for thinking about how beautiful she looked. She wore a plain black dress with sleeves inching towards her elbows. Her hair was neatly tucked into a high bun on the top of her head. She looked appropriate for a funeral, but Bruce couldn’t help but stare. The entire drive she stared out the limo’s windows watching the rain slide across the glass.

            They arrived early. Giselle hugged Molly’s parents- the only family she had left. Her stomach churned as she approached the sleek black casket. Molly’s wounds were all below her head, allowing an open casket. Giselle didn’t know how she’d feel seeing her there, lifeless. She tried being strong, but who can stand tall over a casket? Her heart sank with each step. Then time stood still. Molly was an angel. Her blonde hair was curled loosely around her face, painted with natural shades. She wore a deep pink dress with tiny gold polka dots adorning the fabric. She’d never seen the dress before, but it was definitely Molly’s style. Elegant while still being young and lofty. Giselle couldn’t look for too long, her eyes fluttering across the span the exposed body, trying hard not to rest on Molly’s face. She turned and cried into Bruce’s expensive suit.

            Nobody had expected the outcome at Molly’s funeral. Molly was loved. They had expected family. They had expected friends (though it was terribly difficult to estimate how many friends she actually had). Hell, Giselle even expected ex-lovers. Nobody expected the barista at Molly’s favorite coffee shop to arrive. Nobody expected the landlord of Molly and Giselle’s first apartment together to show up. Nobody expected the family members of the people she saved to arrive. Nobody expected Gotham Central’s president to show up, or even the Mayor. And certainly, nobody had expected Bruce Wayne to be present.

            Nobody but Giselle, of course, and Molly’s parents.

            Giselle didn’t hide her sneer as she stared down the few people wielding cell phones, snapping photos of Bruce. At one point she had stood to approach one of the strangers. Bruce tugged at her hand gently, pulling her back to her seat. He leaned over and whispered softly in her ear, “No. Not now.” She seethed in silence.

            Molly’s family wasn’t particularly religious. A few passages were read and Molly’s honor was blessed with a moment of silence. As her mother took the podium, Giselle’s stomach churned. She tuned her out and focused on breathing. In and out slowly. She clenched the wet bundle of tissues in her hand and tried not to cry more. Molly’s mom’s speech was brief. She cried while walking back to her seat and leaned into the comforting embrace of her husband. It was Giselle’s turn. In and out slowly. She repeated the phrase as she approached the podium. She tried to ignore the fact that a few feet away lie her dead best friend. She tried to ignore that the church was packed like sardines with guests standing and lingering in the doorways. Setting the tissues on the warm wood of the podium and unfolding the paper she pulled from her clutch, she began to read:

            “I was confused when I first met Molly. We were roommates at college. I kept thinking, why would they place me- a moody art student- with her? She was loud and crazy and carefree. It’s like the housing department was trying out a social experiment by putting polar opposites in the same room together. A few months later I discovered the universe works in mysterious ways.

            Molly has taught me a lot of things. She taught me to love myself. She taught me to forgive. She taught me to forget. I would not be the woman… I would not be the woman I am today if it weren’t for her. I always questioned her strength. How could she stand tall in the face of fear and uncertainty? I am incredibly thankful for that strength.

            Eight years ago I was attacked in an alley. I bare a scare down my torso as a daily reminder of the horror I went through. Molly taught me not to be defined by that scar- to not be defined by fear. She had taught me to love myself, and then to love myself again after the attack. She soothed my night terrors and would cry with me when I couldn’t handle the world anymore. In public when I was afraid of every man that passed by, she’d squeeze my hand and tell me everything was okay. Molly was my savior.

            I don’t want to have to learn to live without my wings. I don’t want to have to face the world without my best friend… without my sister. Maybe I’m afraid of having to be strong enough for myself. But however afraid I am of going on without her by my side… I know… I know that that strength that made Molly so special… I know that strength saved countless lives, including my own. Molly stood tall in the face of fear. I have never been more proud to call someone my family- my sister- my best friend. She serves as a daily inspiration for me to be the best person I can be. I may have to learn to have my own wings, but I know Molly will always be there for me. She was my guardian angel on Earth, and she continues to be my guardian angel, even after death.”

            Giselle wiped her eyes carefully and took her seat next to Bruce. He squeezed her hand tightly, and she turned to press her head into his arms when he unexpectedly stood. Giselle cocked her head to the side and watched as he approached the podium. The room waited with baited breath. Nobody was quite certain why Bruce Wayne was there… but they were all about to find out.

            “Hello, everybody. I’m Bruce Wayne. I didn’t know Molly Butler personally, which is something I deeply regret. I have heard a great deal of powerful stories about Molly from her best friend, Miss Yoder. And I have spoken with her parents about the honor and bravery displayed by their daughter. Molly’s selfless courage and strength saved the men and women of Gotham when others failed. That is why, with the blessing of Mr. and Mrs. Butler, I’d like to establish a scholarship in Molly’s name for exceptional youth. I don’t want to the memory of Molly to ever fade away. She has left a lasting impression on the entire city of Gotham, and with the Molly Butler Scholarship, she will continue to influence Gotham’s residents. Thank you all.”

            Just as smoothly as he began, he finished. He took his seat next to Giselle and tried to lace their hands together again. She pulled back and looked at him with furrowed brows.

            “What was that about?” She whispered angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “I didn’t think-”

            He was interrupted by the sound of a beautiful song floating across the room. He fell silent and retreated within himself, ignoring the music. He had thought it a nice gesture, the scholarship. He wasn’t sure why it had angered Giselle so much. Then again, he wasn’t sure of many things when it came to women anymore…. especially Giselle in particular.

            The service ended with another prayer and blessing for Molly. The guests funneled out into the rain. Despite Giselle’s anger, she stayed by Bruce’s side until it was their turn to leave. They stood under one umbrella watching Molly’s casket leave the building, and silently climbed back into the limousine.

            He waited a long moment before asking, “Why are you so upset I wanted to create a scholarship for Molly?”           

            “She doesn’t need your charity,” Giselle said quickly.

            Bruce nearly laughed, “You’re serious?”

            “I told you not to pay for the funeral, but you had to get your hands on it somehow, didn’t you?”

            “Stop being so hostile,” Bruce frowned, irritated. “Why do you always paint me to be the bad guy? I thought we were past that?”

            “Everything doesn’t have to be about you, Bruce.”

            “This isn’t about me! And it isn’t about you. It’s about Molly. I would have done the same thing if I didn’t know you, Giselle. She is a hero.”

            “You don’t know-”

            “Shut up!” He snapped, taking both of them off guard. “Just stop talking for _one_ second, Giselle. No, I don’t know the half of it. I don’t know how much she’s helped you. What I do know is that when Gotham needed a protector, Molly rose to the occasion. She gave her life for others. Did you know one of the women she saved was pregnant? Or that the gunmen almost took a child as hostage but Molly offered herself instead, and then stood in the middle of that damn bank with a gun pointed to her head? She stood strong, Giselle. You talk about her strength and about having to be strong enough without her, but do _you_ even realize the extent of her dedication? I am honoring that woman, Giselle. I am honoring the woman who gave her life. I would whether she was your friend or not. Because bravery and selflessness deserves to be applauded.”

            Giselle sat quietly. She let the frustrated tears slide down her face and drip slowly off her chin. She finally mustered enough strength to turn her head and look out the window. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds still hung over the city. At the cemetery, Giselle didn’t really remember getting out of the limo. The rest of the funeral was a blur of tear eyes and stubborn glances. She was trapped in her own mind. Unable… unwanting… to know what was happening around her.

            Bruce was right. She was pinning all her confused feelings on him. She needed a target. And the transition from a shoulder to cry on to a punching bag was easy. Though she was quick to accuse Bruce Wayne of not caring about her and abusing Molly’s death for publicity, she was also quick to defend him to herself. He had been there when she needed him the most. A month ago he had proven to be one of the biggest regrets she could think of. Her almost lover caused her nights of unrest and fueled a stunning artistic awakening. Four days ago he was a gentle touch and a soft embrace. Her skepticism towards the playboy wore off quickly. He seemed so _devoted_ to her. And beyond a few gentle kisses he had made no advances. Bruce had been nothing but nice to her, and she responded with malice.

            Once back in the limo, Giselle quickly swallowed her pride and kissed Bruce tenderly. She whispered a soft apology and sat next to him. Bruce settled with an arm around her, content, listening to the sound of wet tires on pavement. A few moments later Giselle shifted upwards and looked at him with eyes full of tears.

            “How can I be happy when my best friend is dead? I feel so… _guilty_ kissing you or even thinking about you. I’m not supposed to be happy right now. I’m not supposed to have butterflies and swoon at the sight of you.”

            Bruce blinked a few times, then pursed his lips, unable to form a sentence. A beat later, he spoke, “It took something really shitty to bring us together, Giselle. I wish it never happened. I wish I could have stopped it from happening.” _Really, I do. I had the chance and I blew it. It’s my fault she’s dead- I didn’t act quickly enough. I will never forgive myself for her death._ “But are you going to live the rest of your life mad at yourself whenever you smile? Do you remember the story you told me about that time you and Molly went hiking? Or any time after your attack, really?”

            “Yeah,” Giselle sniffled.

            “She told you to be strong. She told you life isn’t all that bad, right? Bad stuff happens but it doesn’t define you.”

            _Such a hypocrite, Bruce. Maybe you should practice what you preach._

            “It hasn’t even been a week.”

            “I will still be here in another week. I’ll be here in another month. Another year. I’ve spent a month dreaming of your face. I’ll probably dream about it for the rest of my life. Therefore, I will wait until you’re ready.”

            Giselle couldn’t help but blush, “You say that now.”

            “I’m too old for that playboy bullshit the media likes to present,” Bruce declared honestly. “I’ll take you or solitude. Don’t think I won’t lock myself in a tower until I’m 100 just to make a point.”

            “Nobody ever mentions that Bruce Wayne is as dramatic as a thirteen year old girl,” Giselle cracked with a smile. It was followed by a stinging frown, though she didn’t let herself dwell on it.

            “I prefer stubborn,” He said, rubbing his jaw.

            They sat closely for the remainder of the drive to Giselle’s townhouse. Bruce was quick to jump out of the limo and open the door for her. She took his hand with grace as he led her up to her door. He stood as she undid the five locks on her door, uneasily watching how seamlessly she flew through the locks. She opened the door a crack and looked up at him with bright eyes that sent shivers down his spine. It was all he could do but lean down and kiss her.

            “Thank you… for everything,” She sighed into his mouth.

            He replied with an invitation, “Come over for dinner tonight. A late dinner- 7 o’clock. I’ll send a driver. Dress comfortably.”

            “Okay,” She nodded without hesitation. “Are you going to show up this time?”

            “I had a-”

            She cut him off, “I was joking.”

            “7 o’clock,” He confirmed, sealing the date with a kiss.

            They bid farewell, and he waited until he heard the reassuring click of her locks until he headed back to the car. Bruce felt like he was floating on an ethereal cloud. When he was with her the darkness went away. His chest didn’t feel tight and his eyes relaxed. He even smiled. Her perfume lingered in the limo. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the warm leather.

            “Alfred,” He called out, and the thin glass separating the front and back of the limo disappeared. “We’ll be having a special dinner guest tonight. She’ll need transportation, as well.”

            “As you say, Master Bruce,” Alfred paused, then pressed lightly. “I am not certain the last time I have seen you so happy, sir.”

            “I got a second chance,” Bruce sat up. “There’s just something so _magical_ about her. I don’t even think about… Gotham around her.”

            “You don’t think that’ll pose a problem, sir?”

            “You have told me for over twenty years to not take things so seriously. Now that I’m not taking life so seriously, you question it?”

            “Not questioning, Master Bruce. Concern. I don’t doubt Miss Yoder’s intentions in the slightest. I do, however, wonder about the position of Batman and Gotham if there is a woman in the picture. You have said yourself that there no room for those things to coexist. Not to mention the danger-”

            “Alfred,” Bruce warned.

            “I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries, sir.”

            “You did, though,” Bruce sighed exasperatedly. “I understand the concern and I know what I’ve said. I wrestled with it for a month. But I have to try. And maybe Gotham doesn’t need Batman anymore…”

            “You can’t be serious.”

            Bruce wasn’t sure if it was disbelief, relief, or anger in Alfred’s voice. He chose to ignore it. He ignored it all and simply stated, “7 o’clock.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Giselle eagerly waited by her door. She had showered after Bruce dropped her off, hoping to wash away the stench of the funeral. It still lingered, though it was less strong. She let her hair bounce in waves around her head and decided against any makeup. She wore a black and white striped v-neck and a pair of dark jeans. He had said casual and it was the evening of her best friend’s funeral, after all. She felt a little less guilty than she had before, but the emotion still stung in her core. She knew if she didn’t take Bruce up on her offer, Molly would have been screaming at her from the after-life, so she let herself feel happy and giddy.

            A familiar black car approached and the same man who had drove her home the first night she and Bruce met emerged. She quickly slid out of her house and locked the building up tight, tucking her keys into her purse. With a graceful smile, she got into the car.

            Her excitement grew as the city skyline of Gotham disappeared, fading into the country. She’d never seen in the famous Wayne Manor, though she knew it rested on the outskirts of town. As they got closer, the stately estate grew it size rapidly. Giselle’s mouth nearly dropped to the floor, though she resisted the urge.

            Sitting on top a small hill, Wayne Manor was a fortress. Giselle likened it to castles seen in storybooks young girls read. The yellowish brown stone stood tall and long, with two towers flanking either side of the massive building. Atop the towers were jagged black fences that matched the material that surrounded the home. The façade of the home was characterized by heavy oaks and worn black iron. A storybook castle, indeed. Even in France, Giselle had never seen something so grand.

            Alfred was waiting for her when the car pulled up. He extended a hand, helping her out. The car drove away, disappearing back out the gate from which they had just came. He accompanied her up the stairs, offering little words other than pleasantries.

            The inside matched in grandeur. Rich tapestries and marble busts filled the deep foyer. Giselle found herself walking on shining marble. Alfred was talking, though she wasn’t paying attention. Her eyes were busy darting around the room. She bounced from fireplace to hanging portrait to bookshelf. Her eyes didn’t steady, even as they passed through a massive door into a dining room as long as a football field. Plush red chairs surrounded a long table. The fireplace in this room was lit, flickering a wonderful scene of shapes across the wall. Tapestries and busts carried on into this room and above the table hang a magnificent chandelier. At the edge of the room sit a shining black baby grand piano. Though there was an enchanting dinner table, a smaller square table was set up by the fireplace. Chairs that matched those at the dining table were nestled tightly up against the table. Two places were set, and between them a thick red candle slowly melted.

            “Master Bruce thought you’d enjoy eating at a smaller table,” Alfred said as he pulled her chair out.

            She sat and asked, “Speaking of, where is Bruce?”

            Alfred shifted, “He is finishing up some work and will be here shortly. May I start you with some bread and salad?”

            “Bruce won’t mind?” She questioned, her stomach rumbling. She hadn’t eaten all day.

            “Master Bruce doesn’t eat much. Especially greens. Never has.”

            Giselle laughed and nodded, “Then I will happily have some bread and salad.”

            Alfred disappeared through a door different than they came in, and Giselle took to glancing around the room again. She tapped her foot casually as she studied the large landscape canvas hanging over the fireplace. She recognized it instantly. It was Windslow Homer’s oil painting titled “Sunlight on the Coast”. Original, too. Her eyes lit as she thought of all the stunning artwork that filled the massive castle. Her dreams of strolling through Wayne Manor admiring the art was interrupted by Alfred, carrying a tray. He set a wine glass on the table.

            “I forgot to ask if you prefer white or red wine,” He stated as he set a salad bowl and a plate with a chunk of a baguette on the table.

            “Red, please,” Giselle licked her lips as she looked at the food.

            Like a ghost, Alfred disappeared again. She barely noticed when he came back in with a bottle of expensive looking wine, pouring her glass. He set the bottle on the table and left her to eat. She finished the salad and bread in silence. Taking small sips of her wine, the blackness in her stomach grew. The situation had an eerily similar feeling… She poured herself a little more wine and crossed her leg, letting it bounce with her frustrations. Giselle wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Alfred remerged, meekly. Though she didn’t want to admit it to herself, she had been preparing for the moment.

            “I’m so terribly sorry, Miss Yoder, but Master Bruce had a work emergency-”

            “Absolutely unbelievable,” Giselle stated with a wild laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

            “I’m afraid not, Miss Yoder. Master Bruce sends his deepest regrets. He said he knows that you will be furious with him, but that you know he wouldn’t willingly do this again. A matter of life and death.”

            “I can hardly believe that the business world can be _that_ much of a shark tank, Alfred.”

            “It is pressing.”

            “Such a snot nose bastard,” Giselle huffed under her breath, crossing her arms. “Second time in a row. I swear I am going to rip him a new-”

            “Would you like me to call the driver, Miss Yoder?” Alfred questioned, interrupting her seething rage.

            “No,” She declared immediately. “I’m here for dinner, and I’m sure you’ve got it prepared. Bruce has robbed me of one meal already.”

            “Of course, Miss Yoder,” Alfred said with a genuine smile.

            She poured another glass of dry wine, wincing as she drank it. Alfred left her alone with her rage. And once she was alone, the rage slipped into gut-wrenching sadness. She wondered what Molly would have done in that situation? Certainly stayed. At least Giselle was making tiny strides to live like her better half. Be more bold. Embrace more emotion. Giselle wasn’t sure if she could embrace any more. She was torn between wanting to cry and rip a hole in the expensive furniture she sat on. Her stomach flared with feelings reminiscent of that night a month prior.

            And on the day of her best friends funeral, none the less. After he’d promised her a thousand sweet nothings.

            Alfred dropped off a plate of lobster, rice, and steamed vegetables. The salad and bread had kept the wolves in her stomach at bay for the moment, but the second the plate of fresh delicacies slid in front of her, her stomach gurgled with delight. Alfred paused and smiled at her enjoyment, then disappeared back into the kitchen. He checked in on Giselle a few times, noting when she was nearing the end of her meal, before he took out dessert.

            “You sly dog,” Giselle laughed, slightly tipsy, as she stared down the dense brownie covered in a gooey layer of chocolate.

            By the time Giselle finished, she was bloated and sleepy from the wine. Alfred waited a moment before walking back in. He had desperately hoped that Bruce’s evening activities would have ended prematurely and he could have joined Miss Yoder. Bruce’s happiness was nearly more important to him than his safety. There was no denying Giselle’s impact on him. He hadn’t seen the man that happy since- well since his youth.

            “I hope you enjoyed your dinner, Miss Yoder?” Alfred grinned.

            “Of course!” Giselle mocked a smile, her body full of surprising bubbly happiness. “You are quite the chef.”

            “Years of practice. May I call you a driver?”

            Giselle peeked up innocently, “Do you think Bruce would mind if I stayed the night? I mean, I don’t want to impose. I should probably go, actually.”

            “I don’t think Master Bruce would mind at all,” Alfred said delicately. “I could draw you up a room if you give me a moment.”

            While Alfred went to fluff a room together, Giselle stood with a wobble. She wandered around the dining room, her fingers dancing a ballet over the lush furniture. She spun over to the window and pressed on the glass, cold with the evenings embrace. Her footsteps echoed on the marble with a hollow ache. She swung over to the piano. Though cleaned regularly, it was obvious the instrument hadn’t been played in a very long time. Giselle had never played the piano before. She’d never played anything, actually. She had always been more of a brush and paint kind of girl. She didn’t want to press her luck in the creativity department. Yet, she slid her fingers along the ivory keys. A few clumsy taps. She closed her eyes and tapped a few more keys.

            “Miss Yoder?”

            Giselle turned sharply, flushed with embarrassment, “Yes!”

            “Your room is ready. Shall I lead the way?”

            “Yes, yes,” Giselle nodded. “I think I drank a bit too much… I should probably lie down.”

            She followed quietly, focusing on her steps up the winding flight of stairs. They trapezed down the grand hall lined in dark wood and stunning art. If she were sober, she’d probably stopped at every painting and marvel at the beauty. Her eyes were focused on the floor in front of her. One step at a time. Alfred led her through a heavy door into a stunning room draped in rich purples and blacks. Once Alfred was out of the room, Giselle stripped out of her pants and tossed her bra across the room. She jumped to get up in the bed, falling over clumsily. She tried again, grabbing onto the post as she climbed into the luxurious linens. It wasn’t long until she slipped into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

            The sun was threatening to rise when Bruce made it back to the Manor. Angry, tired, and defeated, all Bruce wanted to do was shower and sleep. Yes, he wanted to sleep. It was a rare occasion when he craved sleep, but when he did, he wanted to throw himself into bed and not emerge until the world was fresh and new. He hadn’t had contact with Alfred all night, but he was sure he’d hear an earful from both he and Giselle. Oh, Giselle. He didn’t want to think about her. He did. He wanted to dive into her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her body. He wanted to throw a thousand apologizes at her. He wanted to tell her all about his dark other side. If she would ever speak to him again. Giselle was fragile and broken, and he added to the damage.

            After clocking out at the Batcave, Bruce stumbled loudly through the Manor. His body ached as he climbed the spiraling staircase to the second floor. He followed his normal nightly… or rather, morning, routine. The hot water of the shower hit every inch of his body, sinking it’s teeth into his skin. The mixture of pain and pleasure sent shivers down his spine. He was quick enough, eager to climb into bed. On his way to his wardrobe Bruce noticed a white envelope sitting on top his bed. He slid into his blue silk pajamas and opened the letter dangerously slow. It was going to be from Giselle, damning him to a life of solitude. He was surprised to Alfred’s crooked handwriting.

 

            _Master Wayne_

_You were right about Miss Yoder; she was not very pleased upon hearing you had a work emergency. However, much to my surprise, she said she wanted to finish dinner and “would not let you rob her of another meal”. She seemed to have a pleasant night full of plenty of wine. Giselle wanted to stay the night, and I very well wasn’t going to send her off as tipsy as she was. Regardless, she is sleeping in the third room down on the right. She is not pleased, but she did not leave. I imagine you two will sleep past noon, I will not disturb you._

_Alfred._

            In a swift motion, Bruce dropped the note and ran out of his bedroom and down the hall. Sure enough, Giselle was snoring lightly from atop the high bed. Bruce quietly shut the door behind him. With each step towards the bed his breath hitched, sticking in his throat. The bed shifted under his weight and Giselle shifted, groaning. Bruce stared at her tenderly as he slid between the sheets. He pulled her frame towards him, flushing at the warmth of her bare skin. She fit against him like a puzzle piece. Her skin was soft enough to make him melt. Hell, it _was_ making him melt.

            They’d resolve their issues in the morning, but for now… for now he was going to savor the moment.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the longest chapters I've written! I am so very pleased with it. A little bit of ups and downs in relationships and personal growth. Again, comment and leave feedback!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit (er a little more than a bit) of mature content below. Just a warning! And as always, leave feedback!

_I still taste salt water on my lips from your kiss, bitterness. And I’ll drown within the oceans you made. And I hate to love you, these cuffs are covered in your make up. I’ll never trust you again, you can just be a friend. And I’ll hold onto the words you spoke of. Anchored down in the throat, love. And I’m captain of this sinking boat, now, with just one armband to carry me home. – Ed Sheeran_

 

 

            She had to be dreaming. There was no way she was in the softest bed in existence under the fluffiest blankets with a shirtless, sleeping Bruce Wayne next to her. She had no hangover, despite drinking the night before. No, not dreaming. She was dead. She had to be.

            Giselle dropped her head back down onto Bruce’s chest. He was surprisingly muscular for a suit and tie kind of guy. _Not the most comfortable thing to lie your head on_ , she admitted, _but so very nice to look at_. Her eyes now awake and adjusted to the darkness provided by the thick curtains, she noticed that his sculpted chest was adorned with bruises and scars. Dancing her fingertips along the discolored skin, she wondered where they’d come from. Some were old, some were new. It didn’t seem like they came from a one-time situation. She shifted and gingerly kissed the skin.

            Bruce watched under his eyelids as she traced patterns on his body, then much to his surprise, began to kiss his chest. Her lips were like fire and caused every part of his body to ache.

            “Good morning,” He announced with a raspy voice.

            Giselle froze and turned slowly. Even in the darkness it was apparent her cheeks were flush. She kissed his chest once more before slinking up so their faces were close. Her heavy lids blinked twice before she tilted and kissed him. Her hands trailed along his chest, trying to find a spot to rest while the two searched for life through their mouths. Shifting, Bruce tilted Giselle so she pressed back into the plush mattress. He used one arm to support himself over her and the other to hold onto the silky meat of her thighs. Bruce trailed away from her lips down her neck, leaving Giselle gasping in his wake. He nibbled on an earlobe and muttered softly,

            “You’re in a better mood than I expected.”

            She tensed and Bruce mentally kicked himself. In one swift motion she shrugged him off and sat up, pointing a blaming finger at the man.

            “Don’t think a few kisses will make me forget that you’re an asshole.”

            “You have every right to be angry with me, Giselle. I know, I’m sorry. Now can we forget about it?”

            “I’m not angry, I’m disappointed,” She paused. “No, I’m both.”

            “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Work is just… complicated.”

            “I’m not dumb enough to believe that Wayne Enterprises needs you at 10 pm.”

            “We deal with a lot of foreign companies. I have to be at the building late for meetings,” Bruce had rehearsed the lie, priding himself on the solidarity of it.

            _Fair enough,_ Giselle thought, _I never even thought about foreign business._

            “What about all the bruises and scars on your chest?” She peered closer, fired up. “Are those hickeys?”

            Bruce laughed at the ridiculousness of her accusation, “I take fencing and boxing lessons. You’d be surprised to know how big of a target a billionaire is for criminals.” He pulled her down and kissed her neck. “And you really think with how much I adore you I’d be with other women?”

            Giselle wiggled out of his grasp, ignoring the warmth generated by his touch and kiss, “I’m serious, Bruce. I stayed for a reason. I want to talk about this.”

            With a heavy sigh he climbed out of bed with a thud. He took a few steps and threw the curtains open letting in an onslaught of blinding light. Giselle shielded her eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust them to the sudden change. With the light spilling over the room, illuminating even the furthest corners, Giselle couldn’t help but think it looked like a painting. If only things were that wonderfully simple. Bruce’s bruises were even worse in the sunlight. Contrasting with the pale skin that covered his torso, the bruises were scattered like smeared dirt. He put a hand on the bed post.

            He’d had this discussion in one way, shape or form with plenty of other women. It never stung as much as this one did.

            Sitting cross legged on the bed with the sheets pulled up high around her like a protective shield, Giselle stared him down, her heart thumping with twenty different emotions. They all fought to get out.

            “You can’t keep doing this to me,” She finally spoke, though her voice was barely more than a squeak. She was looking down at the sheet twirling it with her finger.

            Something about the tiredness in her voice, the way she avoided eye contact, her anger and disappointment… something about the picture in front of him sent a knife through his heart. Women had left before because he was withdrawn and gone at different hours of the night. He’d left women not wanting commitment. Not wanting to put them in danger. Or was it, really? Did he want to shield himself the danger of heartbreak? He stood quietly, battling himself. What could he do? He’d let her go once before and hated himself more than he already did for it. But could he let her stay under false pretenses? Could he let her stay knowing he _would_ keep doing that to her? That he’d cause her grief and misery. More misery than happiness, perhaps?

            “I will just have Alfred call me a cab,” She sighed, her words followed by a thud as she slid out of the tall bed.

            While his head and heart engaged in a vicious civil war, Bruce watched her nearly naked body. He resisted licking his lips as he caught sight of the milky white skin of her plump rear end. Her legs were long yet delicate, and he just wanted to wrap them around his neck. She was hopping into her dark denim jeans when Bruce heard his voice call out a request:

            “Stop.”

            She did as he asked, freezing with the jeans pulled to her knees. She cocked her head to the side- an invitation for further explanation.

            “Just… please, can we get back in bed?”

            Bruce relished his small victory as she bent to take off her pants. He was cautious as he climbed back into the bed. He turned on his side and watched as Giselle struggled hopping into bed. She peeled the comforter away and shimmied until she was pressed against him. Under the safety of the thick blanket, she gathered the strength to look up at Bruce. He could tell she was searching for words in his eyes.

            “I have a very complicated life,” Bruce said finally. “I have a lot of things I’ve yet to come to terms with… a lot of things I feel responsible for. I can’t- I _don’t trust myself_ telling you about it yet. I’m wrestling with demons, and I have been for as far back as I can remember. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I said the wrong thing and something bad happened to you, Giselle. I’m just asking for your patience.”

            The air was thick with tension, empathy, regret.

            “You’re in a gang, aren’t you? Like a mob? You’ve got a drug cartel,” Giselle pressed, though her voice was quiet.

            “What?” Bruce questioned with a laugh. “No!”

            “Alfred said your work emergency was **life or death**. You have to go to all these things at weird hours of the night. You’re oddly secretive for a businessman- I think. You’re loaded-”

            “I’ll stop you there,” Bruce interrupted. “Wayne Enterprises is a long lasting company that has many ventures, none of which are drugs or gang activity.”

            “It makes sense.”

            “It does not make sense,” Bruce strained, irritated. “And I won’t have this conversation with you.”

            “You owe me an explanation, Bruce. You charm me at an art gallery- then unnecessarily buy my paintings for way more than they were valued at and ask me to dinner. Should I remind you what happened next? I spent an entire day getting ready like an idiot and you stood me up. Then you had the audacity to come to my home and beg for forgiveness.”

            “And can I remind you of what happened after that?” Bruce interjected with anger. “I had a sleepless month, then you called me in tears in the middle of an alcohol binge telling me something terrible had happened. I showed up and haven’t left your side since.”

            “Until last night when you stood me up again and have offered only shady explanations.”

            “I can’t tell you the truth yet!” He exclaimed exasperated.

            “Bullshit. You don’t think I have demons? You don’t think I’ve got baggage? You can’t use me like this. You can’t play with my emotions like another one of your expensive whores.”

            Swiftly, Bruce moved his body over hers and pressed hard against her body, kissing her forcefully. He grasped her face with his hand roughly to make sure she couldn’t look away. Her eyes were full of fear, confusion, hurt. He loosened his grip.

            “Giselle, I wish I could express to you how deeply I care for you. Your name flows through my veins. I know I’m hurting you. I’m sorry. I truly am. But I can’t let you get hurt. I can’t lose you. I promise you I will tell you everything. No, look at me.” Her eyes had wandered, welling with tears. “You think I’m some playboy still, for some god forsaken reason. You still think I’m this social media figure, even though I’ve held your hand at your best friend’s funeral. Even though I held you while you cried. Even though I laughed with you at your stories and held you at night. What more do I have to do?”

            Her tears spilled down onto his hand, “Bruce Wayne doesn’t want damaged goods.”

            “Bruce Wayne _is_ damaged goods.”

            “I’m not young, and I’m not thin. I have a scar half way across my body because I was raped. I keep five damn locks on my door and don’t take public transportation. I’m terrified of the dark. I have nightmares. And oh yeah, I snore when I sleep. I’m obsessive and possessive and I hate being wrong. My dad doesn’t care to know I’m alive. My mom is dead, and I didn’t go to her funeral. I was too busy in France fucking my boss’s son. My best friend is dead. Everything I love is dead- funny you’re still here.”

            Giselle winced and her eyes cast down. _There you go, Giselle. Just completely fuck this up._

            Bruce let go of her face and sat up, straddling her. She watched with tense curiosity, then shock, as he began to remove her shirt. She lay as he tossed it across the room, not wanting to see his reaction to her scar. She couldn’t look away, waiting for a car crash. Instead Bruce looked down at her with love and insatiable lust. The scar curved across her body, proving to be a lifelong reminder of that terrible night. But she wore it so well. Her breasts spilled to the side, her nipples perked with the cold air. Milky white and with a texture of silk, her skin was addictive. Bruce didn’t ever want to take his hands off of her. Like an intricate frame, her hair splayed around her head, showcasing the tired and worn woman.

            Taking her off guard, he crouched down and gingerly kissed the ridged scar, “I wish you never got this scar. I wish I could kill whoever did this to you” _And I nearly did_ “but you wear it with pride. I love this scar. It’s part of you.”

            He moved to her hips, his lips tickling the skin, “Your body is so incredibly sexy that it keeps me up at night, Giselle. I love the way your figure curves.”

            He left a trail of kisses up, up, up, until he reached her lips. He hovered above her.

            “Do you think I want to be with someone half my age? I want someone who talks passionately about what they love. I want someone to watch infomercials with at two in the morning when we can’t sleep because we _both_ have nightmares. I want someone to vacation with in Italy who will go to museums with me and talk about culture.

            I want you to be possessive of me. I want you to be possessive of what we have. I want you to feel the same way about me as I do you. And sometimes, I want to lock you in a tower away from all the shitty things in the world. That’ll solve your five lock and public transportation thing, right? I’ll make sure the tower has plenty of lights. That’s another one on your list.

            What else… You have the most adorable snore I’ve ever heard in my life. I’m not sorry your father doesn’t want anything to do with you because someone that shitty shouldn’t get to know someone as great as you. I am sorry that you lost your mother. I’m sorry I won’t meet her in this world. I’m sorry you blame yourself for it. I’m sorry you hate yourself for not going to her funeral. I hate that your best friend died so terribly” _No, Bruce. You let her best friend die so terribly._ “I wish you realized that I don’t think your damaged goods. I think you’re a Queen.”

            He kissed her fiercely and growled, “Let me treat you like the Queen you are.”

            She pressed against him in agreement. Bruce smiled with satisfaction. He dipped his head and teased her taut nipple with a few flicks of the tongue. He slouched onto one side of his body so he had a free hand to slip into her panties. She inhaled sharply as he memorized the feeling of her warm thighs and hot heat. Though he only lingered a few moments, it felt like an eternity. She wiggled, and Bruce looked up with raised eyebrows and then slipped a finger inside her. Giselle tilted her head back and arched into his hand. After a few gentle movements, he pulled out, instilling a frustrated groan. He lifted himself briefly so he could pull her panties off and discard them next to the bed. Now that she was fully undressed he could see her in her entirety.

            Wasting no time, Bruce went back to his work. This time, he slipped two fingers inside Giselle. He plunged the fingers in and out of her with increasing speed. Her breath was rapid and she let out a slew of little moans and groans. Bringing his other hand up, he began to rub short circles on her clit. This motion solicited a louder moan. Giselle grasped one of her breasts with her hand and began to rub a finger over her hard nipple. The image of her writhing in pleasure and touching herself was more than enough initiative for Bruce to move further. He stopped abruptly. This time instead of a frustrated groan he got a breathless, “Why’d you stop?”

            Flashing that toothy Bruce Wayne smile, he slid down and positioned himself between her legs. He looked up to gauge her reaction and was met with lip biting eagerness, her finger still curling over her breast. Bruce buried himself between Giselle’s legs. With a gasp, she tilted her head back. Bruce was slow at first, teasing her as he tongued the entirety of her folds. She was wet and tasted better than any meal he’d ever had. He shifted his attention to her clit, his mouth speaking poetry into her sex. Sweet moans turned into desperation. Her hands, which seemed bulky and in the way, found their way to his head. Her hands buried in his thick brown hair, Giselle began to ride his face. Encouraged by the enthusiasm, Bruce trailed a hand from her thigh to her pussy, slipping a few fingers inside as his mouth continued to work. The combination caused Giselle to let a never-ending slur of moans and swears. Her hips buckled and moments later she came, tensing against him. Bruce savored a few more lips of her sweet juice and pulled out his finger, wiping it on the silky sheets.

            Giselle panted as she watched Bruce lie back and slip out of his pajama pants. A sturdy cock sprung forward. Her eyes lit up with desire as she watched him stroke his member a few times before sitting back up and crawling between her, spreading her knees apart as he went. His hard dick pressed against her bare skin. Lighting traveled through both of their bodies, hot with desire. He pushed her hair to the side and kissed her neck. She could smell her own scent on his lips. She closed her eyes.

            “Let me touch you,” she moaned .

            Bruce sucked on her earlobe for a moment before responding, “Next time. I told you I was treating you like a Queen, didn’t I?”

            Instead of waiting for a reply, he thrust into her. She cried in surprise and pleasure. Bruce was relentless from the beginning, his pace fast and intoxicating. Giselle wrapped her legs around his hips. He kept his mouth on her neck. His groans traveled up to her ears, furthering her pleasure. After a few minutes of frantic pounding, Bruce abruptly leaned backwards, accidentally slipping out. They both groaned in anger. Braced on his knees, he pulled her body closer, throwing her legs over his shoulder as he buried himself in her again. The angle allowed him to penetrate her deeper and granted him access to her clit. Her senses already heightened, the addition of his fingers, furiously rubbing at her clit, Giselle quickly shuttered with her second orgasm.

            The feeling of her pussy contracting around him made Bruce want to release himself immediately. Instead, he sped up and pounded harder. Giselle’s fingers dug into the bed, searching for a handful of sheets to grab onto as her body gyrated. Bruce’s eyes darted between her bouncing breasts and her face, twisted in the most beautiful portrait of pleasure. He leaned forward, her legs still around his neck. Her eyes widened and her breath shortened. He licked her neck.

            “Please keep fucking me,” She moaned loudly, a wicked demand.

            Bruce pushed forward more, praying he didn’t crush her lungs as he thrust. She found it hard to breathe and he pounded into her, though she didn’t care. Under hooded eyes Bruce watched as rocked into his cock, tightening around him. She let out a scream as she came, arching off the bed and into him more than she already was. Bruce only lasted only a few more hard thrusts. He went to pull out, but Giselle locked him between her legs and squeezed her pussy. His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head as he buckled into her, exploding inside of her. Giselle was certain she’d never heard such a seductive and primal noise.

            Slowly, Bruce withdrew from her. He crossed one of her legs in front of him and moved to lie next to her. She lowered both of her legs shakily and breathed heavily. Bruce watched as her chest rose and fell for just a minute before he rolled off of the bed and padded over to her side. She could barely get out the beginning of her question before he scooped her up into his arms. She yelped in surprise.

            “What are you doing?!” She questioned with big eyes.

            He carried her across the room, kicking open a door gently, “Cleaning you up.”

            Giselle was transported from an expensive, luxurious bedroom full of tapestries and marble to a bathroom straight out of a magazine. Slick gray stone covered the walls surrounding her. The floors were concrete, just a few shades lighter than the walls. A huge glass box was tucked into the corner. Inside, an array of attachments and nozzles jetted out from every direction. The massive shower stall also featured a bench made of dark black wood. Across the room was a long section of counter made of the same wood with a stark white top. A bowl like sink rested on top of the counter. A few feet away was a futuristic toilet. Bruce gingerly sat her down on the lid. The cold porcelain shocked her swollen privates. She perked up as he crossed the room to the curved free standing tub. She couldn’t help but stare at his ass as he bent down and began filling the tub. Her eyes were unwavering, holding on as he moved to the sleek built ins and grabbed a black hand towel and a bar of soap. Once the tub was full, Bruce shut the water off and grabbed Giselle again, picking her up in his strong arms.

            “The water is really hot,” He warned as he slowly lowered her into the inviting tub.

            She let out a moan as the warmth swallowed her. She tilted her head back into the curve of the tub and closed her eyes. When Bruce reached down and flipped on the jets, her eyes shot open and she bolted upwards in surprise.

            “I’ve died, right?” She questioned. “Because this tub can’t be real.”

            “You should see the one in my bathroom,” Bruce smirked cheekily. “Maybe one day.”

            Giselle glared at him playfully, “If you’re lucky.”

            He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, “Now _my_ bathroom is fit for a Queen.”

            Giselle shivered and leaned back to her resting position against the tub and let the jets massage her tired body. Bruce lathered the towel and began to run circles on her soft skin. He spoke as he trailed her body.

            “I’m honestly not sure what time it is, but I’m sure you’re starving-”

            “Yes.”

            “- so I’m going to go call upon Alfred and have him bring some food to my suite. Whatever you want.”

            “Firstly, you sound completely pretentious when you refer to your bedroom as your suite and secondly, I want a huge omelet with cheese and mushrooms and spinach. And cherry tomatoes! Oh! And some hashbrowns, maybe. And a big glass of milk.”

            “Any more requests?” Bruce raised an eyebrow.

            She put a finger on her chin, “I think you can handle dessert, so… nope! I think that’s all for me.”

            Bruce stood with a laugh, throwing a “Be right back!” over his shoulder as he sauntered out of the room. The door clicked behind him, and Giselle leaned back into the comfort of the tub. She closed her eyes and wondered how life can be both messy and perfect at the same time. And how long that balance would last.  


End file.
